


^y^-^. 



\H0 



RIDIN.% 



^p^^^ ■• 







•■'. " '^,4 


A: 


' k 1 




-»':S 




^s 



r' 



%^^M. 




Class TS^SS 2/ 3_ 
Rnnk EETsf 4 5"T6 
Cop^TJghtN",-. J^aO 

COFi'RIGHT DEPOSm 



FLORIDINA 



FLORIDINA 



POEMS 

By 

SAMUEL D. LEE 



NEW YORK 

JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

1920 






SEP 27 l£2l 



JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
COPYRIGHT, 1920. 



©aA576578 






ij CONTENTS 



■ FLORIDINA 7 

J SONG OF THE BIRD 9 

SUNSET 10 

NIGHT 12 

A maiden's "no" 15 

THE ST. JOHNS, FLORIDA Ij 

WERE YOU BUT HERE 18 

BEAUTY CANNOT DIE 27 

A VALENTINE 27 

A VALENTINE 28 

A VALENTINE 29 

TO VALENTINE 3I 

IN CAMP IN FLORIDA 32 

MAID OF AVON 4I 

A VICTIM 43 

THE ISLE OF THE BLESSED 47 



FLORIDINA 

On violet bank, 

'Mid grasses rank, 
The sunshine is stealing over; 

Does love, awajE, 

This wintry day. 
Think of her careless rover. 

Thro' dreamy hours 
I pluck fair flowers, 

By forest trail and ramble; 
Or woo sweet sleep, 
Where soft winds sweep 

Some jasmine covered bramble. 

But she, tonight, 

Where anthracite 
Throws out a radiant glowing. 

Draws close her chair; 

Without, the air 
Is murky thick — 'tis snowing. 

'Mid bays I hear 
Low, mournful, clear. 
The wild notes of the whippoorwill 
7 



And watch the clouds — 

Like drifting shrouds — 

That all the sky with phantoms fill. 

She hears the roar 

Of hails that pour 
Along the roof and frozen ground; 

It is all gloom 

No sun, no moon, 
But sleet, but snow, but ice is found. 



II 



My bird may sing in sunny climes ; 
Her bells may ring in chilling rhymes. 

My flowers may bloom the twelve month round 
Her pure snows deck the frosty ground. 

She wanders forth on summer days ; 
With me the summer ever stays. 

My thousand trees perfume the air; 

With her they raise their cold limbs bare. 

I breathe with joy the warm south breath; 
Her northland lies 'neath robes of death. 



Ill 



My Love-bird would sing 

Forever and aye, 
Could his warbling bring 

You away — away. 

Song of the Bird 

O come from the frost land, 

O come from the lost land, 
O come to the dear sunny south — sunny south, 

O come from the ice land 

O come to this nice land, 
O come to our own bonny south — bonny south 
O come to my own bonny south. 

O escape the cold blast, 
O flee from the bold blast. 
O come where the orange blooms for thee — blooms for 
thee. 
Bid good-bye the light snows. 
Bid farewell the white snows, 
For myrtle and rose blooms for thee — blooms for 
thee, 
O myrtle and rose blooms for thee. 
O come from the dull skies. 
And where storm-clouds arise. 
And live where the air ever cheers— ever cheers. 
9 



O come where the beams shine, 
For such beauty as thine, 
And love is but born of the years — of the years, 
Where love is but born of the years. 



My bird may not sing 
Forever and aye, 

For bright hopes a-wing 
Are flying this way. 



Where hearts united 

In ever fdir day, 

Can live as they're plighted 
'Neath laurel and bay. 



SUNSET 

A Florida Forest Camp 

The sun flames on the brink of pine > 
It spreads its crimson wings afar, 
And poises there, as fain to stay 
Where beauty sleeps the hours away, 
As though 'twere tired of constantly 

10 



Journeying toward eternity ; 
As if 'twould pause where no toils mar 
And rest beneath the odorous spray 
Of virgin's bower and eglantine 

It never spreads its wings so wide 
Nor shows its colored plumage o'er 
Another spot on earth as here ; 
Not o'er the Mediterranean tide, 
Nor at the Dardanelles' door, 
Nor on the other Mexic shore, 
On higher or on lower sphere. 

The lake lies in tranquility. 

As ordered Christ on Galilee, 

So calmly blue and freshly fair; 

Save where a few faint ripples show 

That some old saurian swims below. 

Its rim is fringed around unbroke 

With feather'd grass and moss-hung oak. 

A gnarled magnolia bends above, 

Its leaves of glossy green scarce move; 

Its gorgeous buds are bursting wide, 

So purely white, of incense rare, — 

Angels, perhaps, I've thought would prize 

These lovely flowers to strew inside 

The chancel rail in Paradise. 



II 



The brown squirrel seeks its basket-home 

Of cross-laced twigs, where rough bough leaps 

The rattler sounds his castinets, 

And draws his mottled form away. 

The winco-pipe its petals fold, 

As fearful that some bold night-gnome 

Would touch its heart with fingers cold. 

The stammel-crested picus sleeps, 

And sings in lower, softer frets 

The Cardinal in swift volee. 



NIGHT 

A Florida Forest Camp 

Pile on the knots ; these hearts of pine 
That reek with flame of Pluto's mine. 
Whose stronger half fell to decay 
And sprang to gaseous realms away. 
If these are souls then left behind 
And long, as does the chaste suttee, 
To join in some starward abode — 
Oh, bid them better speed than wind, 
And let their leaping chariot be 
Like that in which Elijah rode. 

12 



An amphitheater of light, 

With velvet blackness hung around, 

Thro' which pine columns, grand in height, 

Corinthian capital'd in green 

Rise up, to hold the dome profound, 

The wonder of the countless crowds 

Who are on earth and who have been. 

Thou glorious sky! O man, would breast 

The ether in a rapid flight 

To reach the realm of silence, where 

The billowy softness of thy clouds 

Invite to never ending rest ; 

Where myriad flaming stars keep ward, 

And dreamy fancies ever guard, 

For all who come to slumber there. 

From off the distant black-jack ridge 
Comes loud and sharp the sand crane's howl 
And in the jungle down the stream 
Echoes the wildcat's wildest scream. 
And the grufif call of the moon-eyed owl; 
The salamander tunnels run 
Skillful as any engineer 
With compass and theodolite, 
And every rod or so appear 
Glistening in the bright fire's light 
His pyramids of fresh, damp sand. 
Great yellow spiders, striped with black. 
From twig to stump, forward and back, 
13 



Throw filaments that soon expand 

By dexterous curve and marvelous lap 

Into a curious, glittering trap, 

For flies that stir with rise of sun. 

These things and scenes for them alone, — 

For miles there is no human sign, — 

Two stalwarts from another clime, 

In flannel shirts, and black with grime, 

Who sit on ancient log of pine 

As very princes on a throne; 

Who smoke perique in meerschaum pipe, 

And drink of bourbon, mellow, ripe ; 

Rehearse old tales of travel lore, 

Old tales they've told oft times before — 

Old tales by which they set great store. 

The fire burns low. The sinewy men 
Stretch their tired limbs, and sleepy yawn 
They look with care to rifle charge. 
To pistol cartridge and cap — 
Ready for foe, tho' small or large. 
Grasping the ropes, with graceful spring 
They reach the hammock's easy swing 
And closely 'round their blankets wrap. 
Morpheus waves his wand, and then. 
Thro' dreamy vistas of far home. 
Folds them in magic of sleep, from 
Which they are freed only at dawn. 
14 



A MAIDEN'S "NO" 

"Know ye a fairer land than this 
Beneath the heaven's shining sun, 

Where all there is of earthly bliss 

May surely be by manhood won?" 

"Ah, no," the traveler said; "Fair Miss, 
I've journeyed far and looked on none." 

"Know ye a climate that for health 

Is better than South Florida, 
Where virgin soil gives greater wealth 

And asks less labor for the pay?" 
The traveler glanced, perchance with stealth, 

At her, but boldly answered, "Nay." 

"Know ye a land with bluer skies? 

Ol" one where clearer waters flow? 
Where brighter colors drape sunrise. 

Or aught to match this sunset glow?" 
The traveler closed his steel-gray eyes, 

And, turning, simply answered, "No." 

"Know ye a land where tree and vine 
Will make for man a better lot? 
15 



Know ye an air that's so like wine — 
In short, another favored spot?" 

The traveler made impatient sign. 
And said, "My angel. I do not." 

"You've questioned me, and I've told truth. 

And I will even further go. 
I've seen no maid so fair, forsooth, 

Will ye repay the debt ye owe?" 
■"Ah. me. thou wandering, gray-eyed youth. 

My answer, like all yours, is Xo !" 

"And I have come from fartherest earth, 
From Russia white and warm Cathay, 

To kneel to thee, sole one of worth. 
And at thy shrine due homage pay." 

"Oh, turn, brave traveler, from this dearth 
Of love, for I must say thee Nay!" 

And am I buried here in woe, 

Where Nature in her beauty lies, 

And ye'll not with me forward go 
To make it perfect Paradise?" 

"Ah, silly man, dost ye not know 

Two negatives mean — Yes? Arise!" 



i6 



THE ST. JOHNS. FLORIDA 

There is sweeping, wild joy in this Hfe of mine 
On thy banks, O broad-flowing river! 

Where the wind woos to sleep, and the soft sunshine 
Through the tupelo branches shiver. 

i dream of the time in the far-away past, 
When red-men followed thy courses; 

And sigh o'er the legends that tell what trees hast 
Sheltered the Cherokee forces. 

And the warriors and maids who wooed in thy bowers 
Left love marks for later day story. 

In the jasmine showers and the white orange flowers 
Which ever unfold to thy glory. 

I think of the prince who from Spain's martial line 
Sought where thy music waves darkle 

The wonderful font, wreath'd in wild rose and vine. 
Where waters of life ever sparkle. 

Thy sunshine and shades were the forest child's hopes, 
And they valiantly fought for thee when 

There came the pale face to thy green sunny slopes, 
Now none the less lovely than then. 
17 



'Tis the clime where magnolias perfume the soft air, 
Where cypress and myrtle entwining; 

Where cardinals wing, and the turtle dove fair 
Toward love is ever inclining. 

Where the cape-rose whitens the thickets' deep gloom. 

And mosses are daintily clinging; 
Where cactus flowers and lemon trees bloom, 

And mocking birds sweetly are singing. 

Where cypress and palm gently sway in the sun 
'Neath the breath from warm, placid seas, 

And one summer ends when another's begun, 
In this land of the vines and trees. 

The clime of all climes, where each moment of life 
Takes an arrow from sorrow's quiver. 

May you always be loved — with never more strife — 
For thy beauties, O glorious river! 



WERE YOU BUT HERE 

I 

Were you but here to pick wild flowers with me, 
Blue lupin, calopogon, red wild-pea, 
Rich yellow orchis in a golden sea. 
Pure, waxy blossoms of the sweet bay tree; 
i8 



II 



Were you but here to see the flaunting flower 
Of pawpaw, creamy cacti's wealthy dower, 
Palmetto's racemes, sweet-briar petals shower, 
Low, lovely violets where pine trees tower; 



III 



Were you but here, I'd gather mistletoe, 
With holly leaves down where wild roses blow, 
Where jasmine, smilax and fire lilies grow, 
Weaving a chaplet for your brow of snow. 



IV 



Were you but here in April to behold 
Magnolia grand, white velvet flower unfold, 
Scattering perfume as spendthrifts scatter gold, 
Cloying us here with sweetnesses untold ; 



Tall yuccas plumes of milky bells I choose 
To mingle with lantana's varied hues, 
Crab's eye (Abrus) vine, bringing weather news, 
While it its last year's scarlet harvest strews. 
19 



VI 



Were you but here beside this round quiet lake. 
That Hke a film the quick impressions take 
Of stately trees around, the stars to make 
Of this a heaven, their own heaven forsake. 



VII 



Were you but here among great columned pines 
With wild flowers all around displaying signs 
Of welcome, coral red with green combines, 
Among white petaled phlox, blue day-star shines : 



VIII 

Were you but here where green loblollys shade 
The stream that ripples on toward yonder glade ; 
By fragrant cedars flanked ; a retreat made 
For sentiment, were you here unafraid. 



IX 



Were you but here to see blue herons spread 
Wide wings to wing from marshy sedges dead 
To farthest cypress draped deep and dread, 
Where they, in nests of awkwardness, were bred. 

20 



We have in silence waited — no word said, 
And all the woods to silence, too, were wed; 
Then life takes courage; first that's heard and read 
That of limp sawyers that logs saw and shred. 



XI 



Up high, the cypress, plume of ardent red, 
Above an ivory bill and night-black head 
Peeps shyly from a hole. His matted bed 
The fox-squirrel leaves to race the limbs instead. 



XII 



There comes, with stride of royalty inbred, 
Lord of dank hammockhaunts — suspicion fled — 
The Turkey cock in glittering bronze, full fed 
On berries from the saw palmetto shed. 



XIII 

A saurian searching for his weekly bread 
Climbs up the mud where pigs have come and bled. 
Aix sponsa whence from where alarmed they sped 
Float out in iridescent beauty yede. 

21 



XIV 

Hoarse calls the frog; so always he has pled; 
Silent the gopher's and the wildcat's tread. 
Appeals by scores appear, left, right, ahead — 
Were you here thru umbraceous pathways led. 



XV 



Were you but here beneath this spreading oak 
Draped in its flowing gray-green mossy cloak. 
Those gay-flowered lindens, where bees' humming broke 
Into a gentle roar near midday's stroke, 



XVI 

Were you but here by canopy of palm, 
Whose rustling leaves a melancholy psalm 
Perpetually sings, a saving balm 
When overjoyousness endangers calm; 



XVII 

Were you but here when orange flowers appear, 
Their deep, intoxicating sweetness near 
And far thrown on the evening atmosphere — 
A love-borne breath from far Edenic sphere. 

22 



XVIII 

Were you but here the mocking bird to hear 
In divers songs, silvery, liquid, clear. 
Answered by the cardinal's music dear 
As cousinly he shows his plumes so near; 



XIX 

Were you but here to see chamelions change, 
Brilliant butterflies from flower to flower range, 
Frail web spiders arrange and rearrange, 
Decked with bright diamond dews of morning strange, 



XX 



Were you but here when first faint streaks of dawn 
Bid farewell to the stars of night withdrawn, 
Which, lighting yet themselves are paltry pawn 
To Sol's effulgence flooding lake and lawn. 



XXI 

That swiftly touching harpstrings of the spheres 
Wakens our world with music human ears 
Cannot be deaf to. Every bird, too, hears 
And answers with a morning song that cheers. 
23 



XXII 

Were you but here when falls the noon-tide hush 
And warmer currents animation crush, 
Until one's thoughts, past all restrainings brush 
On zephyrs off to unmapped dreamland rush. 



XXIII 

Were you but here when up from the southwest 
A wee cloud grows until the arch is dress'd 
In swirling black; hot lightning rips the breast 
Of mourning heavens — a fiery devil-jest. 



XXIV 

Deep thunders crash to break the wonted rest 
Of nature; wild winds sweep in merry quest 
Of branch to strip and forest-lord to wrest 
From out the soil their power to manifest. 



XXV 

Rain falls as if a river o'er the crest 
Of a great dam in angry volume press'd; 
It drives and drifts from every point to test 
Each crack, and, oft, inside unwelcome guest. 
24 



XXVI 

It slacks! Unfolded in the east, possessed 
Of hope and love, to all mankind address'd, 
A double bow by angel lips caress'd. 
Brilliant and beautiful and by God bless'd. 



XXVII 

An hour ! Where seen a cloud ? the earth impress'd 
By sunny flood ; but, leaf and flower now tress'd 
In dewey pearls ; and air, refined, bequest 
To man to find in life's fresh hour new zest. 



XXVIII 

Were you but here to see the sunset skies 
Tinged with a hundred shades of brilliant dyes- 
Great Banners which the God of heaven fliei 
Glimpsing the beauties of our Paradise ; 

XXIX 

Were you but here when on the evening air 
Spirits of Beauty from every sylvan lair 
Come to enmesh the senses into fair 
Elysian dreams wholly unknown elsewhere; 
25 



XXX 

Were you but here when gentle night winds blow 
Across from waves of Gulf of Mexico, 
Till from the seolian pine needles flow 
Melody so soft, plaintive, soothing, low ;— 

XXXI 

Were you but here when the full moon looks down, 
Of night at once the lovely queen and crown, 
Whose floods of dreamy light o'erwhelm and drown 
All irritations that the day brought 'round; 

XXXII 

Were you but here beneath the stars tonight 
We would, at least in fancy, take a flight 
Across the realms of space to that great light 
Canopus, than six hundred suns more bright. 



XXXIII 

Were you but here, we'd dream new dreams, and build 
Our castles near, by waters Peace hath still'd 
Whose battlements the rays of sunrise gild, 
Whose chambers are by Love's effluence fill'd. 
26 



BEAUTY CANNOT DIE 

Across the parallels bright tho'ts come troopin' 
Whence frosty figures glow upon the pane 

To where in sunny splendor azure lupin 

Proclaims the coming of the spring again — 
Heralds forth the vernal equinox again. 

'Tis one bloom only in the vast procession — 
New pageantry as weeks and months go by, 

That on a wanderer leaves the deep impression, 
While flowers may fade, their beauty cannot die- 
Tho* substance withers, spirit cannot die. 

And so with kindred, to other realms departing, 
Behiiid leave all the loveliness of life 

To lift the shadows and to ease the smarting, 
'Til found in verity beyond the strife — 
'Til they're regained in truth beyond the strife. 



A VALENTINE 

I send you some greenery — some greenery to wear, 
Entwined, as were roses entwined in your hair, 
And if, when I come, I should chance to find it there, 
I would know, so I think, what to do. 
27 



The story is told, — a mere legend, of course, 
That the mistletoe has the magical force 
To draw a knight-errant from afar to the source 
Of a joy scintillatingly true. 

Some say that alone to his eye, 'tis revealed, 
For eyes that are lighted by love unconcealed, 
Quicken, as flashes on the magnetic field, 
And the fire of the stroke never miss. 

And, since elder day, when he reaches the shrine, 
Where mistletoe branches invitingly shine. 
His heart leapeth forth to the pleasure divine 
Of the blush to the answering kiss. 



A VALENTINE 

I gather violets on the slopes 

And orchis on the lea. 
And read in them anew the hopes 
Tho' miles and miles are now between 

One lovely maid and me. 
My heart goes back to that sweet scene 

Beside the sea — and thee. 

That grew beside the sea; 
28 



1 wander down thro' Lovers' Lane 

And wish you here today 
To walk with me this bowering fane 

And cheer the lonely way ; 
I bind for you a wreath of bays 

Embraided with jasamine, 
That shall keep green our love always, 

Mj'' charming Valentine. 



A VALENTINE 

The east is full of splendor — 

With brilliancy aglow, 
As Morning's fairies lend her 

Bright colors from the bow ; 
The rose throws wide its petals. 

The pine's long needles shine, 
As mem'ry backward settles 

To far-off Valentine. 

The mocking bird is singing 

flis many tuneful lays, 
The cardinals are winging 

In flashing, crimson ways; 
The golden thrushes flutter 

With scarce a vocal sign, 
But all together utter 

A prayer for Valentine. 
29 



The midday sun is glowing 

In a cerulean sky, 
The river, calmly flowing. 

Breathes a soft lullaby. 
The dogwood's pure white blooming 

My forest path\vays line 
And melts the lonely glooming 

With thoughts of Valentine. 

Here spreads a beauteous carpet 

Of violets pearl and blue, 
Which have, thro' passion's war, kept 

Love's beacons burning true. 
There, lovely orchids dainty 

Their blushing heads incline: 
With those and these, I paint a 

Picture of Valentine. 

Behold ! the sun is sinking — 

A gorgeous color scheme. 
Whereat the soul is drinking 

In ecstacy and dream — 
Is eloquently speaking 

A language scarcely mine, 
And yet, the heart's deep seeking 

Spells out a Valentine. 

In long festoons, the mosses 
Wave gently to and fro 
30 



Where the gaunt cypress tosses 
Its arms in the moon's glow. 

Odors of orange and lemon 
Intoxicate as wine ; 

Night puts another gem on 
The brow of Valentine. 

The day's winds are in slumber; 

Up through the soft, warm night 
I gaze, where without number 

The stars are shining bright. 
More beautiful and clearer 

Than stars, those eyes of thine 
Which, as they are, seem nearer, 

My far off Valentine. 



TO VALENTINE 

What distance lies between the snow 

And semi-tropic land 
Where streamlets musically flow 

With flowers on either hand? 
Shall my mind not go far afield 

To where a love had birth, 
And to that love a homage yield 

As great as all on earth? 
There's not an hour in all the day 

But what I think of thee; 
31 



There's not a flower by all the way 

But what I'd pluck for thee — 
The pretty violets blue and white— 

The yellow sweet jasmine — 
Come whispering if they may not light 

The path of Valentine. 
And why should I not acquiesce 

In prayer of flower and vine 
That twine and blossom but to bless 

Mv distant Valentine? 



IN CAMP IN FLORIDA 

Far from the noise and confusion, 
The traffic and toil of the street,— 

Far from the heartless allusion 
To notes I'm expected to meet, — 

I'm here, where flowers in profusion 
Are spread as prayer-rugs at my feet. 

The flowers, and wonderful mosses 
Woven in patterns that shame 

The skill of adepts in flosses 

And wools, for beauty, and claim 

The homage I give without loss as 
Each musci I'd study and name. 
32 



Far from the strivers for money — 
Sordid blood-treasure of earth 

That's stored, as bees store their honey, 
For robbers next in their mirth, 

I'm h. re where the sky is all sunny 
And gentle Pegasus hath birth. 



Briefly I've joined in the striving. — 
Taken my place in the mart, 

To find I'm but fitted for hiving 
The harm, ihe hurt and the smart. 

From which I shrink for the shriving 
Which m.isical birds grant the heart. 



I criticize never the master, 
Floarding as shepherds herd sheep, 

Xor sorrow, when Fortune has cast her 
Favors on others piled deep- 

I merely v.nsh rest where these vaster 
Pine forests invite me to sleep ; 



Plere, where the mocking bird's singing 
His cheerful, pertinent lays. 

Where cardinals brightly are winging — 
Flashes of crimson in bays. 

With thrushes up yonder clinging, 
To make their gold-coated displays. 
33 



On atmosphere sensuous, flowering 
Jasmine comes over the sense, 

While down from the Styrax tree towering, 
Blossoms, full ripened, fall dense. 

Whitening the ground with their showering 
O'er Peace River lowlands immense. 



Days pass as dreams pass with dreamers : — 
'Tis morn, when the awakened east 

Throws up its flamboyant streamers 
Of wondrous favors, the least 

With Beauty's compared, would outbeam hers 
And she find her own praise decreas'd. 

'Tis then that the woodlands awaken — 

Are filled with echoing song : 
The birds, which their keynotes have taken 

From heaven, and down here prolong; 
A pleasure ne'er to be shaken 

Or even interpreted wrong; 

With hearts that seem overflowing 
With life and perfect good cheer. 

Praising the Lord, and not knowing 
Existence should be in fear 

Of reaping from their Adam's sowing 
In the bird world's earliest year. 
34 



How glitter jewels of the morning, 
Diamonds in rays of the sun 

Are petty besides those adorning 
The webs the spiders have spun 

O'er bush and o'er grass, as scorning 
Darkness and toil, until done. 



Look on the gems and the weaving. 
Mostly admire which you please, 

Either's beyond the believing — 
Changes that never shall cease : 

Those to the spider's work cleaving. 
To the beautiful jewelry these. 



Gray squirrels incessantly chatter, 
Making emphatic protest 

'Gainst the invasion, — a matter 
Important enough to be prest- 

To the intruder; the latter 
But envies the happy distrest: 



Pretty chaps, they grow confidential 
Should one exhibit some tact, — 

Advancing in course providential 
To make harmonious pact 

Instead of killing. My pen shall 
No moral put down from this fact. 
35 



They come down a tree on a spying 

Trip, sharpened, active, alert. 
Their bushy tails high-arched, and eyeing 

You with trained vision expert, 
And suddenly scamper then, crying, 

Returning when they've found no hurt. 



Likewise with birds, quickly discerning 
Danger approaching their door. 

They're easily taught, and soon learning 
For them you're friendly, and more. 

Till, their bridges backward arc burning. 
Thev linger, and eat of your store. 



And the days ! with their perfect o'erarching 
Stretch of immaculate blue, 

The sun not too trivia), nor scorching, 
Bringeth in answer most true 

The flowers and the fruit to its marching- 
Each day giving forth something new. 



The orchis that bow in the grasses- 
Delicate yellow and pink. 

Blue lupins in wide-spreading masses 
Day stars just over the brink 

Of the hill; then what surpasses 
Passion flower as Edenic link? 
36 



As sun rays are gathered by lenses 

Humid air gathers in night 
Perfume of the citrus on senses 

That falter, and magnolias quite 
Overpower ; and here my pen says 

These all, with cape-jasmine, are white. 



In patience, at eve, and half lying 
Far from the crack of the lash. 

My thoughts to my own thoughts replying, 
Whether sound, silly or rash ; 

Watching the fire in its dying — 
Falling from flame into ash. 



Facing the sun in his setting — 
Marvelous light in the west; 

The evils of earth all forgetting, 
The soul in tremulous quest 

Goes forth at Fancy's wide letting 
And I remain here at rest. 



Always a change in its beauty 
Ever a shifting of scene. 

As varied as richness of booty 
A baron brings to his queen — 

A palette of color to suit a 
Painter who dreams aniline. 
37 



Reds that are coming and going 
Mark the whole gamut of shades 

The lights into darker are flowing, 
The darkest constantly fades, 

The gold in brilliancy showing 
On edges of blue it embraids. 



Wide on the horizon spreading, 
Touching the crown of the arch, 

Color on color fast treading, 
From purple to silver of larch — 

Hues of a Tyrolese wedding 
Or fanciful mardi-gras march. 



Color to color is blended, 

Exquisite coin from God's mint; 
Fainter and fainter, yet splendid 

In gleam, in glamor, in glint ; 
Fading and fading, is ended 

With never of red a hint. 



And stars come out in their brightness, 

O'erspreading the firmament 
Conveying the mind with lightness 

Thru realms whence their glow is sent. 
Wandering in wonder no mite less 

Than in roaming daylight's extent.. 



'Tis easy to talk of billions 
Of miles yon Algol's away, 

But well might it be in octillions 
Under the limited sway 

Of the mind that vastness still stuns 
Until put completely at bay. 



Problems perplexing make weary 
The brain that's taken in quest 

By speculation that's mere a 
Bale-light that leads 'til opprest 

Are all senses beneath dreary — 
The dreary deep maze of unrest. 

As forces of tempest are lost in 
Efforts o'erstrained, so at last 

The mind is no longer engrossed in 
Crossness of strenuous blast, — 

But finds itself happily gloss'd in 
The waters on which it is cast. 



Smooth river of sleep that Slowest 
Down to the eternal sea. 

Never yet lives he who knowest 
How he goes, bondman or free; 

Whether the soul go to soweth 
Seed on the bank beyond Lethe, 
39 



Or, if, as Brahman is preaching, 
It falls like a drop of rain 

Into the ocean far-reaching 
And like that same drop again 

Comes back to earth for new teaching. 
Experience, knowledge and pain. 



With an "if" we are obliged to leave it 
As from the beginning it's grown ; 

Mere "if," and if you believe it 
Sprung from a postulate sown 

On barrens, and naught to relieve it 
From doubts on the chance wind blown 



Here, with the towering pines keeping 
Watch o'er the camp thru the night. 

The camper, child-like, is sleeping, 
Bothers of life put to flight,— 

Thru leaves the zephyrs are creeping 
Intoning a musical rite. 

Rest! Dreaming not that you follow 
Hound-haunted deer in the chase; 

Rest! Without dreams that o'er fallow 
Broad turkey tracks you would trace 

Rest! As on hill and in hollow 
Darkness all land marks efface. 
40 



Soothing the night and its voices! 

Soothing the odor of pine ! 
Soothing the wind that rejoices 

Entangled in branch and in vine ! 
Soothing the stream's music choice as 

An anthem subdued and divine. 

Sleep ! Elfs of night are bestrewing 

Your couch with blossoms of thorn! 

Sleep ! 'Neath the hand that's bedewing 

Your bed where you liest lorn ! 

Sleep 1 Sleep on in rest that's renewing ! 

Sleep on, O sleeper, 'til morn. 



MAID OF AVON 

The sunlight falls in splendor 
Among the pines of Avon, 
And soft the waters lave on 

Verona's shores, and lend her 
The subtle charms that movi 
The heart to thoughts of love. 

The south wind comes as spirits 

From far Elysian realms. 

And blushing cheek o'erwhelms 
With greeting that inherits 

The passion born of time, 

Devotedly sublime. 

41 



The oars splash in the water, 
Her words ring on the air, 
And heaven itself is there 

With that fair northern daughter, 
While this heart far away 
Knows rest nor night nor day. 



The stars in hosts are glowing 
From their unmeasured way; 
Their lights in glory play 

Around this maiden's going — 
Orion, the Pleiades 
Bless such a one as she is. 



The sunbeams light the lowlanc^ 
Where violets spring up thickly. 
And I would pluck them quickly 

And enweave them in a band 
With lilies white as snow 
To deck the maiden's brow. 



The aster and the jasmine, 
The sweet-briar and the rose, 
And every flower that grows, 

Secrets for this maid divine 
Are ready to unfold — 
Sweet secrets, new but old. 
42 



Would I were there to gather 

The flowers that bloom for her, 

Happy if she'd prefer 
That I would do it, rather — 

Rather than any other 

Wiser, better brother. 



A VICTIM 



I came down to this little house today, 

Sixteen by twelve, the merest rough-board box 
Built by a man as if in careless play, 

But yet he was most serious. To my knocks 
No answer came, for, with the common clay 

His flesh has mingled since I last was here 
Ten months ago. I sat upon the step 

And looked down on the pretty lake so clear 
From which the sunset's ruddy tints have crept 

And left a steel-blue color far and near. 
Save by the further shore where a black band 

Is backed by the thick ranks of towering pines. 
But, coming nearer, here upon this hand, 

I see, half washed away by rains, the lines 
Where he had struggled in the barren sand 

To make a garden, 'round which few frail lath 
Protected what he vainly sought to grow. 
43 



And down the slope, upon that hand, the path 
He went with steps that weakly grew and slow 

For the pure water of the lake, which hath 
Deliciousness that strangers cannot know. 



II 



I look upon the sunset's fainter shad 

And my mind wanders far across the seas 
To Fatherland, whose memory never fades. 

Where a young man has taken his degrees 
From Heidelberg, the highest of his grades. 

And with his parchments, and his name as heir 
To large estates and an ancestral hall, 

And the v/hole world appearing doubly fair, 
Goes back, ambitiously to conquer all, 

To find that spendthrifts had stripped all things bare. 
But what was that? Had he not wealth of lore 

Of that great school, which marks the road to fame? 
And with his love — ah, I would not say more 

Than that she turned with eyes of scornful flame 
From him who wooed when he the titles bore, 

And now would wed — 'twas a preposterous claim. 



Ill 



Perhaps the earth in time will grow enough 
In love and goodness so that God will send 
44 



Alillenial justice to smooth out the rough 

And thorny paths his children now must wend. 
My old world friend fell at his last rebuff 

Which left his life but as the empty shell 
From which was taken all there was of worth, 

And he turned westward where he felt that hell 
Was not so fierce as in his land of birth, — 

And one in peace and hope might calmly dwell, — 
To the republic, where the people's rights 

Are bedded in the fundamental law, 
Where honesty burns universal lights, 

Where men their fellow men from danger draw 
Where all is heaven, and where nothing blights. 

Such was the innocence and profound sv/eep 
Of unsophistication v/hich this man 

Who, spite his learning, let the dream-gods leap 
And frisk before him, a morganic clan ; 

And while indeed o'er sorrows he would weep, 
His eves a restful haven here would scan. 



IV 



Thus he precisely was the one to fall 
In the first hole across his pathway dug. 

And it was ready, as for strangers all 

From foreign lands the sanctimonious thug 

Stood on the wharf with oily tongue to call 
Heaven to witness that for rectitude 

He had few equals, in the church's name, 
45 



And by the book of prayer which did protrude 
From underneath his arm, a holy flame 

Blinding to all; disreputable — crude, 
The cheat, the bunco man, the common thief 

And easy liar, who could sneak a purse 
With deafened ear to plaintive calls of grief, 

Would leave the victim penniless, and, worse, 
A stranded immigrant without relief 

In stranger land under a stranger curse. 



He's freed from suffering, my pure German friend, 

And no one knows just when or how he died, 
For in this solitude he reached the end 

Of human things with no one by his side 
To say a kindly word or to aid lend. 

I dare say that he deemed it just as well 
For those professions were not as a sieve. 

His soul could safely with the Father dwell, 
But he whose torment it is still to live 

Will yet, like Dives, raise up his voice from hell 
For a cool drink which none will ever give. 



46 



THE ISLE OF THE BLESSED 

A Romanct 

Prelude 

A hermit sat in his cabin door, 

The evening wind moved his locks of gray, 
And he looked straight out, and far away 

Where the fretful waters washed the shore. 

He looked straight out, but he neither saw 
The stately pine nor the rolling wave ; 
Beyond all these, from the past's deep grave 

He saw a spirit the dark slab draw. 

He reached for his pipe and blew a note. 
Another, and more, and filled the air 
With an uncouth strain he would not dare 

That a stranger ear by it were smote. 

It gave surcease to the dawdling day, 
And pleasantly bridged the hollow hours, 
And what, indeed, were its passing powers 

To other than he who tuned the play? 
47 



1/ out of the past it charmed the sprites 
Who brought dear joys of a younger time, 
Renewed the pleasures of youthful mime, 

These all were only his and the night's. 

lie softly played for enjoyment rare 
Of liimself alone, and echoes came 
From the pines that towered against the flam 

Of the southland's sunset ardent fiare. 

Away from the \\'orld, the world was naught 
To him v,ho rest for himself had found 
In forests foreign to every sound 

Save those of nature this lone one sought. 

And if he but touch the pipes to please 
Himself for an hour, why, who shall say 
Tlie song is such that he shall not play' 

The glimmer'ng stars, or the night's faint breeze? 

Not they, indeed, to the child Vv^ho makes 

Of them close friends, which they in turn show 
A kindness for him who sits below 

'Till their sweet voices a new chord wakes. 

And so he will play, and if one ear 
Afar or near shall list for the notes 
Of his crude song which carelessly floats 

From bis retreat in the deep woods here, 
48 



Shall he wish more, this hermit in gray, 
Who passes hours in midst of the pines 
Where through the day the sun ever shines 

And soft blow the winds of night? Ah, nay! 



I 



Thou hast been in the land where forever the flowers 
Bloom in their beauty through the year's sunshining 

hours, 
Where the sky in its softness looks down on a scene 
That existence uplifts till it meets the serene; 
Where the orange and the lemon are fruited with gold 
And the zephrys come far from the sea and enfold 
In iheir chastening freshness the spirit that seems 
To delightedly rest in the region of dreams ; 
Where the vine with its clusters is rich in display, 
And the birds their glad carols are singing for aye : 
*Tis the land of the South, it is Florida fair 
That allures with a breath of its pine scented air 
Which welcomes the sojourner with promise to give 
The full span allotted man below here to live; 
And the hope that it holds for the hearts that v/ould 

love 
Partakes of the measures in existence above. 
'Tis the beautiful land o-f adventure, romance, 
Where DeLeon, the prince, early sought to enhance 
The value of being and discover the spring 
49 



That perpetual youth to its bathers shall bring. 
But he did not find that ; like humanity all, 
He dallied not here when came clearly the last call ; 
But he left us who linger with legends, his name, 
And that — do you know it? — is the element fame. 
Yet whatever there is in the waters that flow 
From the sulphurous depths, from the regions below 
To develop the joys of a man's earthly days; 
We acknowledge the air, like a balm, ever plays 
The most magical arts of upbuilding and strength 
And existence prolongs to the patriarch's length. 
Many thousands have kneeled at its health-giving shrine 
And prononunccd all its attributes glorious, divine. 



II 



In this land of the South, off the southwestern coast, 
On an island superb, but yet one of a host — 
But one of a thousand, which lies calmly at rest 
Like a child in its sleep on the Gulf's sunny breast, 
Lived a hermit of years just turned thirty, I think 
Who'd been here a decade, ever hoping to sink 
In oblivion's depths disappointment of youth; 
But the more he had thought, the more certain its 

truth 
That the passion but scotched will its troubles ne'er 

cease. 
And for things least desired, we perchance have life 

lease. 

50 



Ill 



In a far northern clime, in a city of note, 
Where the ships of all nations triumphantly float 
In a commerce the old world looks at with amaze 
From out its envelop of conservative haze; — 
It v/as there Seagrave Winthrop was born into a fold 
That was said to be builded with blood-gotten gold. 
What the dear public meant by this speech to convey 
Was this, that Old Winthrop had imperious way 
Of gathering his wealth from the need and distress 
Of those whom misfortune gave him power to assess, 
If a shadow of truth should be found in that — well! 
In his home on a street where the money kings dwell 
He was all a fond husband and father could be ; 
At least, his wife bless'd him when the final decree 
Bade lier go from this world ; and he mournfully bent 
And was never himself after that sad event. 
And, in subsequent time, as years ran their round 
He faltered and lingered on the prec'pice profound 
'Til a message had sped to the precincts of Yale 
And his son had come back, with a countenance pale 
With a sorrow at heart, but no moment to spare 
For a last grateful look as he brushed back the hair 
From the dark wrinkled brow ere the spirit had fled 
And his tears freely fell on the face of the dead. 



51 



IV 



Several things had combined to make Seagrave disposed 
To keep clear of the palings which sharply inclose 
The favorites of fashion; he was inclined to shun 
All men, and regretted such a course he'd begun. 
He had heard the reports of his father's vast wealth 
And how 'twas obtained, vile inuendoes by stealth 
Aimed over his head, until his sensitive soul 
Shrank from meanness he felt was humanity's dole. 
Still, ambition he had. His desire was to know 
All things that a person might be taught here below. 
He had plodded through books in a haphazard haste 
Which to most men would mean so much time gone 

to waste ; 
But his was a brain built on a plan of its own. 
That would strip away knowledge, as meat from a 

bone ; 
While the dull verbiage was forgotten with speed. 
Every fact essential seemed on file for the need 
Which should call for its use, and what thing can elude 
A brain of this make-up when in earnest pursued? 
Religion and science, philosophic inquest, 
The mechanical arts, each was briefly his guest. 
He had reason for this, to himself so he said; 
For, probing the doctrine of the state of the dead 
Or the future existence of spirit, he caught 
At the Brahmic idea as a sensible thought. 
To at least the extent that the soul must prepare 
52 



By experience full for its sojourn up there 

Among the perfected, and if one life fell short 

Of rounding out knowledge, it seemed sense of sound 

sort 
That another would come, and still afterwards more 
'Til the gamut was run and the soul had the store 
Of instruction and light to enable its rest 
To be calm, with its equals in realms of the blest. 
And he deemed what he learned would pass never away, 
But available prove on the dawn of that day 
When necessity called for it to be given 
As qualification for place in the heaven. 



Outside of this theory his heart made an appeal 
For the one who since childhood had been his ideal; 
Her he would hold perfect, all a woman should be, 
Whom he'd claim for his wife when from college toils 

free. 
And a palace of love rear for her that would swell 
Beyond any yet builded by those, who here dwell. 
To her he now went, with heart throbbing as true 
As any that pulsates underneath the sky's blue, 
And he laid at her feet all — all that a man can, — 
What he was, was to be through existence's span, 
To meet with refusal — worse than that, to be spurned 
With hot words that for years in his fervid breast 

burned. 

53 



Did he think that his weahh, gotten she needn't ask 

how, 
Was enough to induce a fair woman to bow 
To the yoke that he held with so tempting a hand? 
Ah, his books? She forgot, what was this to command 
Of a place in the circles where she moved and enjoyed 
Every scheme by the dwellers in Fashion employed? 
A woman who is not a bluestocking herself 
Cannot go alone, nor remain home on the shelf 
While her husband's eyes follow the desolate page 
That embodies dull thinking of one called a sage. 
She thought she had feeling, was not cruel to a friend 
Of long years, as Seagrave, but their lives could not 

blend 
More than water and oil, he must see and admit. 
Besides, she would say, as the occasion was fit, 
That she would be married ere the end of the year 
To that charming gallant, Mr. Vincent De Vere. 



VI 



When young Winthrop sat down in his room late that 

night. 
For some minutes of thought before striking a light. 
He damned the world roundly as a viperous thing 
In coil for whoever came in reach of its sting. 
And he by the reptile had so often been bit 
His blood was discolored by the poison of it. 
And if healing there was — any radical cure, 
54 



It was somewhere afar, where surroundings were pure — 
That is, where the world's face and its people were 

new; 
Or, perhaps, 'twould be well all mankind to eschew. 
The suggestion, once framed, grew in favor; at length 
It became a command of unavoidable strength. 
If his reason had come, as it usually did, 
To a problem in doubt and perplexity hid, 
He would have found, surely, that the woman was 

right. 
And that they two were different as day from the 

night ; 
With minds so at variance they never could line 
In a union over which love's full light should shine, 
This perhaps would have brought to his mind not that 

ease 
Which philosophy warrants to disciples whose knees 
Are bent at its altar; for if love is not blind 
Its devotees are apt to be weakened in mind 
And overlook facts which like mountains expand 
To the vision of watchers upon either hand. 
We may know not what's best, but we all can look back 
And observe where we stumbled on life's rugged track. 
And the pitfalls escaped as by some happy chance, 
For they never were seen as we made our advance. 
And in after days, Seagrave in retrospect saw 
Himself but a factor in this great natural law 
That what is so, so is best, and the chast'ning rod 
Is laid for a purpose by benificent God 
55 



Whose omnipotent power permits naught to go wrong 
From fall of a nation to the bird's sunny song, 
And a planet o'erwhelmed is no more in His eyes 
Than the insect which lives but an hour ere it dies. 
Alone man protests, while the beasts of the field 
Obedience implicit unto this statute yield. 
What tiger or leopard will not fight for its life, 
But expire in calm quiet at end of the strife? 
And no four-footed thing lacks the courage to meet 
In submissive silence pain or final defeat. 
And again, man objects that the right has been cross'd 
When some cherished object to his hope has been lost. 
All his life, Seagrave Winthrop had this girl in mind 
As a beautiful goddess, the best of her kind, 
And had climbed to such heights with the ideal he made 
That he now was appalled, where the wreck of it laid ; 
And the scene made him ache, and he wished himself off 
From a place where each tongue seemed unloosed but 
to scoflf. 



VII 



So he placed his possessions in hands of a firm 
To hold and account, for indefinite term. 
And soon after departed, he cared not the way, 
But the route which he took ended in Florida. 
One could never deny inconsistency here ; 
As he hated the crowd, and he went 'twould appear 
Because of the fact that 'twas the popular trend, 
56 



And the difference was not very great at the end 
Of the well-traveled lines from what had obtained 
At his home in the North. He felt naught had been 

gained. 
The hotels were filled with the fluffings of style, 
And dreary nothings the charm invoked to beguile 
The hours that hung heavy on their somnolent minds 
Which list not to the mill of the gods as it grinds. 
Seagrave quickly declared he v/ould now have recourse 
To his own company ; therefore, buying a horse, 
He rode out in the woods. The roads merely were 

trails 
Which ran hither and yon, among pines, around swails, 
Through gloom of the hammocks, and wherever he 

met 
A river, he forded, getting many times wet. 
For fair Florida then was true Cracker all through 
And that meant no progress and no effort to do. 
The native Floridians, the Crackers of fame. 
Whatever their virtues, and the number they claim 
With most any people's will compare fairly well. 
One is not over-worked, but to satisfied dwell 
With events as they are, and they hold it a crime 
Without reason, excuse to pit work against time; 
For of time they're aware they have all that there is. 
And where — where is the man who can say more is his? 
There is one thing a Cracker has never allowed. 
That is for a neighbor up against him to crowd ; 
Seven miles is too close, and twenty-five not too far 
57 



For the next settler who'd not the first's friendship 

mar. 
To the visitors who have since those early days flitted 
All over the country, has the Cracker submitted 
With a philosophy in his inertness found, 
And to immigrant thousands with theories profund 
Of which blue ruin has been so often the fate; 
And to the railroads — but they at first awoke hate 
For killing his cattle : then he moved further back 
From noise of the engine and from sight of the track. 

VIII 

Of his trials, Mr. Winthrop didn't need a whole week 
To convince him that he must soon some other plan 

seek. 
The hardships were many ; the experience brief 
Was sufficient taste of the joyous relief 
From the kingdom of men, and a closer contact 
With wild nature revealed what he heretofore lacked — 
An expansion of soul, an uplifting to light. 
Which gave promise of more than was seen on the 

height 
Proudly rising aloft in the ideal beyond 
Where the fates of this world with the next, meet and 

blend. 
And which way he would turn and what course he 

should trace 
Came by opportune chance to his ready embrace; 
58 



As is often the case as we fumble along 
The right is unfolded to prevent a step wrong. 
As he rode back to town, a gaunt horseman astride 
Of a pony that seemed meanly fed to provide 
Transportation for six feet of loose jointed bones 
Which made themselves known as Capt. Kendrickson 

Jones, 
Said a cordial "Good evening!" — 'twas just after one, 
And South evening begins soon as dinner is done ; 
And, lest thereupon you something wrongly imply. 
In tliis country they dine when the sun's in mid-sky. 
Captain Jones was one known o'er state's wide extent 
As a borrower of truth with a freedom which lent 
Picturesqueness quite rare to the tales which he told 
Of the sights he had seen and his adventures bold. 
He was chatty and kind, and at once opened out 
To the visitor he found on this unusual route. 



IX 



His horse looked like he's tired ; had the stranger been 

far? 
And had he diskivered what he's looking fur thar? 
"Rekeration ? I'm beat ! You uns do mighty quar ! 
Say, stranger, want to buy any land around h'er? 
Re'kon that the dirt's pore? Let the soil go to hell, 
The dirt's not in markit; 'tis the climate we sell! 
Wanter look at the state? Well, now, Kurnel, yer can't 
By yerself. Git a guide. Wal, thar's old Cypress Lant 
59 



He knows all the places — and the game, about it; 
Yer obliged ter hav' teams, an' a campin' outfit. 
But fur somethin' right solid, I set on a boat 
Then it never seems like yer is broken to tote 
Fodder fur cattle, fur boats nothin' don't eat 
An' critters out campin' like yer men eat to beat. 
Whar might yer go? Stranger, anywhere. Thar are 

streams 
Many more than yer'd count. Hunts of winter day 

dreams ? 
What might them be? The coasts? The west — that's 

mighty fine 
Way down on the Gulf side — that's below the freeze line, 
'Mong the ten thousand keys — somethin' that more'n 

sand. 
Fur off? Wal, ten townships down below Boca 

Grande. 
Settlers thar? I don't know of none livin' 'bout than 
Injuns? I re'kon not — they don't never raise har." 



As they finished the ride, in the town, on the Bay, 
Seagrave asked his companion in Lyman's, to say 
What he'd have. He said whiskey, and took it full, 

straight. 
Then, excusing himself, — he would no further wait 
On the Captain's long tale, Winthrop quickly withdrew 
For his lodgings and rest, for he felt rather blue, 
60 



And he wanted a bath, and a civih'zed meal, 
And also a lotion several bruises to heal. 



XI 



In that day, you'll recall 'twas sometime in the past, 
And Florida has grown in late years very fast, 
And in future is bound to grow very much more 
As its beauties are known and the unfastened door 
To its hospitable climate swings open wide 
To the knowledge of those who find comfort allied 
With a region away from the snows of the North 
When ugly-faced Winter in his might cometh forth ; — 
In that day, the railroad stopoed in Jacksonville tov/n 
Save a crazy old line which would carry one down 
On a time-card that could for no two days agree, 
To a place then and now marked on maps "Cedar Key," 
In 'this town on the Key, which appeared as if made 
From remnants and leavings, and the builders afraid 
It might grow to look decent, but never a sign 
Of this thing was observed by young Winthrop, whose 

line 
Crossed this island of sand drifted up by the waves. 
'Tvv-as dilapidation; and the desolate graves 
Of the dead gave a cue to the feelings of those 
Who survive in their way, and no mourning disclose; 
They are stoics, these people, who never will show 
Deep affection for friends, nor regret when they go. 
6i 



XII 



lie purchased a vessel, a yacht thirly feet long, 
Rather broad in the beam, built exceedingly strong, 
Altogether too big to be sailed by one man, 
So said all the chorus, each one having a plan 
Of equipping the boat for a trip down the coast, 
And each one of himself as a guide first would boast. 
Without asking advice, or revealing intent, 
About his own business the man silently went ; 
Stocked the boat with enough for a year, so they said 
Who looked and commented, 'til he wished them all 

dead. 
A new slout extra sail, a wall tent with a fly, 
Sea biscuit in a tight copper box to keep dry ; 
There were many tinned goods, and a large water cask, 
Coffee, sugar and salt; liquors, each in its flask; 
An assortment of seeds and a second-hand chest 
Full of carpenter's tools; cordage, bars and a nest 
Of cooking utensils, matches soldered in tin, 
Coils of wire, spades and hoes; and at last he brought 

in 
His personal baggage, among which could be found 
A shot gun and rifles, ammunition, a round 
Of tackle for fishing. These embarked, he set sail 
With a hope to be spared from the storm and the gale, 
And yet never afraid, for he'd handled the sheets 
With success many times at Long Island yacht meets. 
To his curious friends, he bade cordial farewell, 
62 



And they cheered him at last, 'til he reached the Gulf's 

swell, 
Then they made prophecy, as he turned the Point 

'round, 
That the boat would be wrecked and its sailor be 

drowned. 

XIII 

The wind was propitious, and he sailed all that day, 
And kept on through the hours o'er a moonlighted way, 
Until late the next day, in an inlet he cast 
In safety his anchor, and slept soundly at last. 
After that he sailed days, and laid by for the night ; 
With plenty of leisure to enjoy every sight — 
He'.d no destination in especial to reach, 
And most willing to learn all that Nature might teach 
To a scholar so apt, to whom so much was new 
In the life he was on and the scenes he passed thro'. 
Now and then he would see a lone settler's house stand 
In embrasure of woods on the low-lying land, 
But he kept well ofif shore — he had left man behind, 
And wished, for a reason, to see none of the kind; 
And if fisherman hailed him o'er wave in voice hoarse, 
He answered the greeting without varying his course. 
Three weeks of this sailing, from the day of his start, 
He got 'mong the islands, as he saw by his chart, 
Which his friend, Captain Jones, had talked highly 
about. 

63 



There he went slowly, visiting scores, but in doubt 
Which was best, 'til at last one as round as a ring 
Had the one indispensable fresh water spring ; 
'Tv/as six furlongs across, and upon the east side 
Was a cove where his yacht very safely could ride 
From southwest gales sheltered, and well screened 

from all sight, 
By the wild mango growth that hung over the bight; — 
There was timber in plenty, the soil appeared rich, 
And here he decided was the spot where he'd pitch 
Tiis camp for the future — and the future he meant 
Covered not more than three or four months in extent. 
'Tis a wisdom divine which lets children of earth 
Look back very clearly on what happened since birth. 
But prohibits a sight into time yet to be; 
For were every event of life opened free, 
Few would want to encounter the pain, drink the gall. 
In exchange for the joys — joys and pleasures would pall 
Until quite valueless, and existence naught more 
Than miser'ble we would pray to be o'er. 
If the Jews had foreseen the long wilderness tramp, 
Would they for a moment have proposed to decamp 
From toils in old Egypt? And could Winthrop have 

viev/ed 
liis years on this island, he had lacked fortitude 
To have entered upon a career of such length. 
But a habit will grow, and gain daily in strength 
'Til at last it becomes of the subject a part 
And severance as painful as a disrupted heart. 
64 



What may be expected to be irksome and hard 

\V;11 occasionally turn, like the turn of a card. 

In a way not surmised, as it did in this case, 

When for Winthrop the days ran such riotous race 

Of absolute pleasure, that he almost forgot 

To his calendar mark, so contented his lot. 



XIV 



The first trial of his skill was erecting a shack 
Thatched with palmetto leaves which he soon learned 

the knack 
Of laying so deftly as to shed every drop 
Of water wind-driven 'gainst the sides or the top. 
Then he cleared a small plot, and proceeded to sow 
Certain seeds which he watched with deep interest 

grow ; 
They were quick to respond to the care he bestowed. 
And he wondered the more, as he spaded and hoed, 
Why it was that these lands of such gen'rous reward 
Had never been settled. It seemed not in accord 
With orderly nature that the choicest of soils 
And climates seem to act, unexplained, as the foils 
To a civilized people. 'Twas not so of old. 
As we see by the facts which the records unfold 
Of Palestine, Persia, Syria, Egypt and Greece, 
Where peoples and products had marvelous increase; 
And the time will yet come, when conditions are right, 
When this zone will advance to an Edenic height; 
65 



And the smallest exertion of muscle will give 

The greatest of blessings for which man ought to live. 



XV 



Seagrave hunted and fished. Hours and hours he 

spent out 
When bright rosy morning flushed the sea all about 
With its opaline hues, or the day dying red 
Its beautiful color o'er the wide waters spread, 
And the scheme of the tints in their varyings held 
Him loyal to the empire where he happily dwelled. 
And with shot gun or rifle, he wandered away 
Over islands and mainland for many a day, 
Until the whole country was well known as the rule 
Of addition, for instance; for this was a school 
Where learning was rapid and each point gained 

impress'd 
On the mind with sternness that would fix it there lest 
At the instant 'twere wanted. And he grew weather- 
wise 
In the currents of air, and the clouds and their size ; 
Soon was able to track the wild cat or the bear. 
And knew where the panther made in thicket his lair; 
Knew where 'twas most likely the dread rattlesnake lay 
Or the moccasin crawled, the two things in his way 
He wished never might come, for naught else was there 

here 
For which the hunter need have in his mind any fear. 
66 



And he knev*^ where the deer could be found at his feed, 
And his rifle ball stopped it even when at full speed ; 
He could call the wild turkey, and knew where the quail 
Or the plover or snipe could be found without fail. 
P>ut he cared less for game — for he never sought more 
Than enough to supply what he needed in store — 
Than for joy that it gave him to be 'mong the trees, 
To delightedly drink of the inspiring breeze, 
To grow better acquainted with shrubs, plants and 

vines, 
Which he gathered and studied on botanical lines, 
'Til he had an herbarium bulky, correct. 
That gave him great pleasure afterwards to inspect, 
And, still further, profit, for he readily found 
The medicinal herbs which in numbers abound. 
All these things gave him life, and a strength brightly 

new 
Of impassioned soul being, v>?hich brought him to view 
Much nearer the heaven than he ever had deemed 
That mankind could attain in this world roughly 

seamed. 
And when the night shadows darkly over him stole, 
Looking up at the stars and dov/n into his soul. 
There was always a voice of immeasurable love 
That convinced him of God in the regions above. 
And, when weary, he laid on his pallet of moss, 
Slept the sleep of the just, and, if dreams, they were 

floss 
From the distaff of fairy-land fancy, and spun 
67 



By the beautiful elves of the flowers and the sun. 
XVI 

The young man was grateful, when his mind would 

revert 
To the subject, that he was away from the hurt 
Of the speech of his kind. It was more in attune 
With the state of his mind to with Nature commune. 
Yet he still highly valued the knov/ledge of men, 
And his severance from this he regretted ; but then 
It was not insurmountable, knowing he could 
Stretch his hand to the world for what appeared good. 
Four months has sped quickly ; as it drew near to May 
He snugged up his household, got his yacht under way, 
And with southwest winds brisk, before which he ran 

free, 
He was speedily brought to that place — Cedar Key. 
He found there few letters from his agents up North, 
Not any one having at the moment great worth. 
To Seagrave who'd retired for the time from affairs, — 
Statements duly made out about buildings, repairs, 
Income and investments. It surprised him a bit 
How the credit side grew, drawing little from it. 
Then he wrote his booksellers in Twenty-third Street 
For some two score of volumes selected to meet 
His immediate needs, and thereafter make sure 
Of all publishers' catalogues they could secure. 
The weeklies and monthlies, the list cut and revised 
68 



To what he most wanted, fifty numbers comprised, 

Of science, mechanics, letters, medicine, art. 

And he patiently waited 'til he could depart 

With the packet of books and prints numbering back 

To the first of the year, filling full a mail sack. 

To the great wonderment of the postmaster there, 

Whose experience had naught with this to compare. 

And it "beat him clean out how one person could need 

A heap of such papers — more'n he ever could read." 

XVII 

Seagrave Winthrop with thoughts of feasts mental, 

returned 
Against breezes adverse, which the skipper concerned 
When they called him to tack; in prolonging the run 
And lengthening the journey that was nothing but fun, 
For he laid on a sail reading a magazine 
When his yacht on fair course to the wind would 

careen. 
A devourer of books, he had never before 
Found them so absorbing as he picked from his store 
Here and there, and had time to consider and weigh 
What he read. It is true that his later life way 
Was conducive to thought and expanding of mind, 
To paths marked by others no longer confined. 
Down under this fact explanation full lies 
Of what traveler's have oft observed with surprise 
That intelligent men let their days come and pass 
69 



As they happily live, an unique hermit class 
Apart, but possessing each a haven of rest 
In a forest sublime of the South or the West. 
There are few, very few, who can submit to such 
Hard and stern discipline. Nearly all men must touch, 
Almost constantly, man, and their brain strength 

recruit 
From the clashing of views and the fire of dispute. 
An occasional one in himself is contained 
To amuse and instruct, growing rather restrained 
Amid fellows of kind, and at last for some cause 
He roundly condemns them and completely withdraws 
To the seclusion deep of a forest profound 
Where the loves and the lights of sweet Nature abound. 
When at home from that trip with his first lot of books 
He sat down by his hut and felt sure of all nooks 
Of the world he could find, wheresoever the quest 
None so valued would be as his Isle of the Blest. 
And yet to his intellect it was perfectly clear 
That another might hold a far different place dear; 
Each one has a heaven 'round his daily life bent 
If he locates the spot where he lives in content. 

XVIII 

After this his rough friends, who took liking for him 
When they found he possessed courage, courtesy, vim. 
Once in every three months saw his blue pennant fly 
In Cedar Key harbor, his sole base of supply; 
70 



At least, until some six or eight years rolled around 
When many new settlers far to southward were bound 
Together by railroads which surpassed all belief, 
Until finding in fact, to his comfort, relief. 
That the steam-cars came down nearly one half the 

way. 
And he made a new port in the famed Tampa Bay, 
And this was still shortened by constructing a line 
Through the long, weary stretch of Punta Gorda pine, 
And then, like a Cracker born into the manner, 
The great world was as near as he cared to scan her. 



XIX 



He concluded to build a house of his liking. 
And he forthwith began by manfully striking 
A pine of the forest, and worked on to the end 
Through the weeks and the months, taking care not 

to spend 
Too much of his muscle to let not the morrow 
From this day's allotment of strength any borrow. 
The trees fell around him, and he hewed with rare skill 
The great pines on three sides; when he brought them 

to fill, 
By block and by lever, each its place in the wall, 
They fitted together and, if ever crack small, 
It was stopped by the clay which he puddled and spread 
That each log might be laid in a durable bed 
With final protection against insects and wind. 
71 



The stout rafters on top were adjusted and pinned, 
Covered tightly with boards, and these overlaid 
With shingles which Seagrave from big cedar butts 

raved. 
Inside he wainscoted with selected curl-pine 
Smooth and polished like glass, showing every wave 

line 
In unequalled beauty, and red cedar in long, 
Narrow panels above, with moulding raised strong 
Of white bay between each ; and the one entrance door 
Of oak quartered, in thickness four inches or more. 
Several windows for light set up high from the ground. 
And a piazza broad on three sides ran around, 
Gave a place where he spent full two-thirds of his time, 
As one really may do in this seraphic clime, 
Where outdoors is the life that inspires and refits 
All the worn threads of being in him who submits. 
Inside he had furniture and closets and cases. 
And odd cupboards inclosed in out-of-way places; 
The work skillfully done, not an open joint showed, 
The whole lightly polished, like a French mirror 

glowed. 
He had labored so long, with so ardent a heart. 
That the thing of himself seemed an actual part. 
'Twas a home and a castle that might easily raise 
From a builder in search of the new highest praise, 
And to Winthrop a place where he dreamed he might 

stay 
'Til — he knew not how long — 'til perhaps he was gray. 
72 



XX 



As the years went along, he summed up in his mind — 
Made a balance as 'twere of the good he could find 
In the life that he led, and charged 'gainst it the bad — 
The drawbacks he suffered — always finding he had 
A large handsome credit in contentment and peace 
Which, year added to year, seemed to rather increase 
Than diminish. He felt from the first the warm blood 
Luxuriantly course through his veins in a flood 
That gave meaning to life, enhancing his pleasure 
Beyond anything which the old way could measure; 
And he felt rounded out, for both muscle and brain 
Had proper allotment of travail to sustain 
Them in excellent health, and yet never pushed out 
To the limit which they might be strained and meet 

rout. 
He debated oft times in his mind which was best, 
The moments he labored, or devoted to rest. 
And he failed to make choice, each was equally dear, 
And he believed that in either no man was his peer. 
He accomplished so much ; he would not have believed 
That man in the normal is so greatly deceived 
In the progress he makes — in formation of aims 
Which leads to achievements founded only in claims 
Of the sordid, and looks never further and up 
Toward the Being extending the spiritual cup 
To the hand that is raised, for the lips that will drink 
Of joy whose devotees never falter or sink. 

n 



By such measurement true he apportioned his time, 
That the hours flew along with the smoothness of 

rhyme, 
And his brain never ceased the solution of doubts 
While his hand was at work in the most menial of 

routes ; 
And, perchance, when he took pen or pencil to write, 
His ideas freely flowed, like the beams of sunlight 
Which streamed all around him, and he covered the 

sheet 
With rapidity and very even and neat 
In formation of words, yet expecting no eye 
Would into his essays have permission to pry. 
Still, the whirligig brought him again to the fore 
In affairs of the world, and his manuscript lore 
Became prey for a bookman, who rushed it to type, 
And critical readers hailed each volume as ripe 
Production of genius, most remarkably bright 
In the statement of facts, for the clearest insight 
Into problems obscure, for the arguments sure. 
And the form of his text, go grammatically pure ; 
The range of his work was no less cause for remark, 
From theories of spirit where they only embark 
Who are thinkers profound, through his "Medical 

Pleas," 
With particular reference to new remedies 
From South Florida herbs; a thorough inspection 
Of chemical agents for certain detection 
Of murderous poisons. But he took greater pride 
74 



In his novels, in which he undertook to decide 
Metaphysical doubts, the relation of sex. 
Marriage ties, worth of life, and such questions as vex 
Advanced people today. In all this was a fame 
He rather enjoyed seeing attach to his name. 
'Twas no trouble to write, the ideas fairly seethed 
Through his brain, and as free as the air that he 

breathed 
In his favorite time, in the late afternoon 
When he sat on his porch, heard the sea's constant 

croon 
On the shore very near, and looked into the west 
Where the sky was on fire as the sun went to rest 
With a marvelous flame full of entrancing change 
Which rioted over the whole spectrum's bright range. 
What could mortal want more, he would often inquire 
To the spirit's uplift and the soul to inspire? 



XXI 



On one day — 'twas in March, and his years on the isle 
Had numbered a dozen, with no thoughts to beguile 
Back to regions he knew, or to others unknown. 
From the beauties which were wholly his own. 
As he sat on the shore, on the southwestern side, 
'Neath cabbage palmettoes which spread o'er him their 

wide 
And umbrella-like tops, with his thoughts reaching far 
Away o'er the water that showed scarcely a scar 
75 



Of a ripple to break the glass's surface which glowed 
In the light of the sun that at midheaven rode — 
A magnificent scene of a dreamy-like calm, 
To which swells on the shore sang an heart-easing 

psalm. 
It was a favorite seat to which he often came down 
With a book in his hands, which were tanned a deep 

brown 
By the wind and the sun and the work they confess'd 
To employ a quiet hour any way he thought best; 
A student of Spencer or of Kant, as the mood 
Might dictate ; or he'd close the typed pages and brood 
O'er the quivering leaves which the forest and sky 
In their changes would turn to his inquiring eye, 
And from which he could read more than letters 

revealed 
Of the secrets which trees and the earth keep ensealed. 
And he sought far away beyond what was in sight 
For the ultimate laws of the wrong and the right — 
For the qualities called instinct, reason and doubt, 
And which play, in the problem of life, in and out 
In such intricate ways that they've not been unlocked 
To the profoundest mind which for causes has knocked 
At the spirit-closed door. Or he merely would gloat 
In the capturing dreams as his fancy would float 
With the soft cirrus clouds as they feathered the blue 
In their multiplied forms ever changeful and new, 
Or the tones of the sea which forever unfold 
Their translucent blues, green, crimson, russet and gold, 
76 



And revealing a path to where spirit could live 

At the right hand of Him who such beauties doth give. 

XXII 

Winthrop's senses had grown very heedful to change, 
And he let his eyes now intuitively range 
To the wcstv/ard, and low on the horizon saw 
A cloud darkly unfold and, succeeding, a flaw 
Of a breeze struck his cheek, and he knew, tho' no sage 
That a vicious subtropical storm would soon rage, 
And he pitied the men who'd be caught in its path 
For escape would be chance from its treacherous wrath : 
E'en so the skilled seamen — how much more for those 

strange 
To the handling of craft and the storm's mighty range. 
With this thought in his mind, the sky blackened, 

clouds roll'd 
In wonderful masses, swept around fold on fold. 
Which grew denser and blacker, and descending hung 
Like an inky pall over the Gulf waters flung. 
And there came on the blast the deep, gutteral notes 
Of rolling discharges from the demon gun throats, 
And the waters which lately so splendidly shone 
Boiled and tumbled and into a white rage were thrown. 
And the trees bended low in the hurricane's grasp. 
Seagrave looked on absorbed, with his fingers in clasp. 
And his eyes photographed every detail of scene 
So well that its mem'ry always lived with him green. 
17 



XXIII 

He started! What was that? Did he see something, 

or not? 
Did he dream it or see? Was that white thing which 

shot 
Like a flash on his sight the outlines of a sail, 
Or a mass of sea foam wafted on by the gale? 
He sprang up and looked off ; pulled his hat down for 

shade ; 
His form fairly trembled, and the briny spray played 
O'er him in a torrent. The gale held its fierce breath 
For a moment, as stricken with premature death. 
And then suddenly swell'd with a redoubled force 
Sweeping on with new strength and voice startlingly 

hoarse. 
Which drove him 'gainst his will to turn backward his 

face. 
Ah ! There it was surely ! A real boat, and a race 
For life through the tempest, a mere cyclone toy toss'd 
In the waters' wild rage. Would it live, or be lost? 
Who was it there fighting? Aye, some inexpert hand, 
Or he'd reefed up his sail. Could he ever make land? 
Not one chance in a score — or a thousand — to save 
That craft swiftly flying with its souls toward the 

grave. 
For, though rightly upheld for the isle by its head. 
It would dash a wrecked mass on the shore with its 

dead. 

78 



XXIV 

The hot blood of Winthrop surged excitedly through 
His swell'd veins as the boat approached nearer to view ; 
He would help, but he felt utter absence of power 
And each minute seemed stretched to the pain of an 

hour. 
But the cockel-shell came headed straight for the beach ; 
His heart stopped as he saw — saw a woman's arm 

reach 
Uplifted as asking God in mercy to spare 
From the impending fate. What a picture of prayer! 
And who'd venture to say no answer was given? 
She believed it, indeed, believing in heaven. 
Seagrave shouted : "Let go — let her go — free your 

sheet !" 
In a thundering voice ; but it fell in defeat 
In the wild whirling gale, and the sailor no heed 
Paid the warning thus sent, perchance knew not its 

need. 
The next moment his boat, almost touching the land, 
Over went. Were they lost? Should a hero there stand 
And see two people drown, without making a stroke 
In an effort to save? Yet 'twould seem to provoke 
Certain death, too, for him. Though a swimmer expert 
With a knowledge complete of what powers to exert 
In combatting currents, he knew only too well 
The dangers which threatened in that dark seething 

hell. 

79 



XXV 

A flash only of thought. He had thrown off his coat 
And stood ready to phinge. The man chmg to the boat 
Beating 'mong the wild mangoes where it had been cast, 
And was probably safe for a time, holding fast. 
At that instant a head — 'twas the woman's — came out 
Of a wave, and Seagrave took a header; his doubt — 
Perhaps fear — had all gone — gone away on the gale, 
And his only thought now was how best to prevail 
In his fight for that life, for his own, too, no less. 
He had seized her. How? Cared he? By part of 

her dress. 
He knew only too well that he could not prolong 
The struggle, relying on tough muscles and strong, 
With such burden in hand, in the awful maelstrom 
Of the rough waters' sweep — they would quickly 

succum.b 
Save he soon reached the land. They went down with 

the boom 
Of a roller that rose like a mountainous tomb 
O'er their heads, 'til his breath seemed to go, and a 

grave 
Opened wide 'midst the wrec'ics which the sea's bottom 

pave. 
With giant-like effort he came once more to light, 
Shook the spray from his locks, and in pride of his 

might, 

80 



With few conquering strokes reached a tree with his 

hand, 
Pulled himself up, and laid the limp form on the sand. 
He then, with less effort, dragged to safety the man. 
"Lie there! Hurt? But alive! I must do what I can 
To save this young woman. Oh, your daughter. Fear 

not. 
What to do in such cases I have not forgot. 
If there's life in her heart, I will bring it to light. 
Ah, there is, I am sure. I will soon have her right.". 
He had opened her garments with boldness that grew 
From the needs of the hour, and with quiclc motion 

threw 
Her across his own lap, rolled her forward and back. 
Chafed her arms and her feet in vigorous attack, 
And soon saw the effect, as the blood 'gan to flow 
And a sure evidence of new consciousness glow. 
Then he shouted, "She's saved!" "Thank the Lord," 

the man moaned. 
As he raised up half way, falling back as he groaned. 
"She must go to my house," said Winthrop. "I'll return 
And be doctor to you — give yourself no concern. 
Bravely bear with your hurt, with a smile, 'f you may, 
Affairs might have been worse — you're alive, anyway." 



XXVI 

With his burden enwrapped in his strong arms he sped 
8i 



On the dank, winding path, 'mid the dense growth, 

which led 
To his home, which — the thought would intrude — would 

seem fair 
With this woman, howe'er briefly, domiciled there. 
Yet he felt inability plans to devise 
To ward certain embarrassments which would arise ; 
But, in cases like this, the one chance of success 
Is unfearing advance to final victory wrest. 
In the meantime the tempest passed on to the east, 
And the rain fell, first slowly, and then it increased 
To a torrent through which he hurridly strode 
And, almost exhausted, nearly fell with his load 
As he came to the haven ; but with pleasure he felt 
The woman's faint struggles in his arms as he knelt 
Intending to lay her on his outdoor settee. 
But she sat boldly up when at last to move free, 
Gave a glance at her clothes, her bare feet on the floor, 
And the blood to her cheeks, he saw rapidly pour. 
"This is no time, madam," and his voice was severe, 
"To be falsely modest. I am sole master here, 
And physician beside. You must do as I say ; 
Get at once into bed. I will show you the way. 
You'll be unmolested. Take off every wet thing; 
Use this robe, if you will; in these blankets I bring 
Wrap yourself warmly up," and his tone had grown 

grim. 
"Yes, your father's alive, and I go to fetch him." 
His word of command she knew must be obeyed. 



Then Seagrave hurried back 'long the path to where 

laid 
The man who was injured, thinking how he'd sustain 
Such a burden in way not to give too much pain ; 
This was labor, indeed. With a broken leg bone, 
Ev^ery move brought a pain, which his lips would not 

own. 
But Winthrop was gentle ; got the man on his back, 
And with care made each step as again o'er that track 
He went home, and at last had the man on a bed. 
*'You're a thousand percent better off than if dead. 
Keep your courage, my fellow ; I'll soon have you 

fixed." 
He never knew, after, how he crowded betwixt 
Noon and sunset so much severe effort, and yet 
In all things that he did there was not one to regret. 



XXVII 

The rainfall passed away in its chase of the storm, 

And from unclouded sky the sun shone again warm. 

The trees sparkled with jewels, while the air purified 

Exalted the feelings 'til the spot seemed allied 

To the Eden of old, and delightful songs ran 

From the depths of the green where the myriad birds 

sang. 
He found his first patient calmly making the best 
Of the circumstances, and taking much needed rest, 
83 



And her clothes hung to dry; stripped the man as he 

lay, 
Rubbed him well, all the while kept his tongue in full 

play 
About this thing and that, conversation of sort 
Which made hours that might drag otherwise appear 

short. 
And partial sporific the attention to take 
From the hurt that the handling compelled him to 

make; 
Rove long splints at his bench, such as time would 

permit, 
Put the leg into place, deftly bandaging it 
From the hip to the toes, and pronounced the job good. 
The victim felt easy, declared that he could 
Repay never the debt he had that day incurred 
With his heroic saviour. But this Seagrave heard 
In displeasure, and frowned ; said, to those in distress 
'Twould have criminal been had he done any less. 

XXVIII 

Of a sudden the notion he was hungry came 

To the host, and most surely his guests were the same. 

And he set about cooking, with lurking regret 

For the poverty shown in his larder, which met 

Nowhere near his demands; but when supper was 

brought 
The new comers united in saying they thought 
84 



It delicious, and then, by the way they partook, 
Gave support to their words, proper praise to the cook. 

XXIX 

The young lady recovered her spirits and clothes, 
Very gay were the first, badly disheveled those, 
And her hair in a tangle and crispy with salt. 
The disorder she bore, perchance hoping each fault 
Was unnoticed by host in the fast gathering gloom, 
For no lamps were at hand to illumine the room. 
He had refrained on purpose from using all lights 
Artificial; this first lovely hour of the nights 
Was for calm meditation; he always retired 
Ere 'twas late and arose with the eastern sky fired 
With its many bright tints, when all life was astir 
In the newness and freshness of nature, from whirr 
Of the birds 'mong the leaves, to the sleek, watchful 

deer; 
When man's heart highest beats in the clear atmosphere, 
And a plunge in the wave opens wide to the soul 
The illimitable realm o'er the earth's lowly dole. 
This night, on the contrary, he remained until late, 
As he heard Alice Sevrance the story relate 
Of their misadventure; how they happened to be 
Where they were when the storm awfully tore o'er 

the sea. 
He knew she was handsome, of a favorite type 
With him in the old days; dimpled cheeks always ripe 
85 



For the blush that would come — come and go at a 

slight 
Invitation ; her eyes of bright hazel, enlight 
With a premonition of what speech would enfold; 
And her hair of chestnut, with a hint of dull gold 
Revealed when the sunshine would its coilings assail. 
But tonight, in the dark, she told simply her tale 
In a musical voice, which rose gently and fell 
Until Winthrop was meshed in the w^eave of its spell. 



XXX 

"You see, Papa and I have been stopping at Myers, 
Where man — and the guests there are men mostly — • 

aspires 
To catch the big tarpon, but I think it a shame. 
Such a waste of good fish ; yet it's fun— they are game, 
From the moment they're hooked, they will run, jump 

and fight 
For the life dear to them, 'til they're exhausted quite; 
As they flash to the sun they're a sight to be seen, 
Their dripping scales shining in their silvery sheen. 
And Papa, over there, did enjoy it so much — 
Don't you think, dear Papa, that you've got just a touch 
Of what's called retribution? You had no excuse, 
For you didn't need one of all those fish for use. 
At last, Papa fell out with an insolent guide — 
86 



As if one couldn't fish without henchman at side — 
But up there at Fort Myers they think none should 

cast hook 
Without paying some crank to accompany and look. 
Then we got us a boat, very one that you saw, 
For excursion outside, where we'd make our own law 
For a couple of days. It was pleasant. We staid 
Till the third — yesterday — when at noon Papa laid 
The boat's course for Fort Myers. We had missed 

having luck. 
When all of a sudden a big fish my hook struck. 
'Twas a monster, indeed, and the line outward spun, 
'Til Papa took a-hold, by degrees stopped the run — 
He stopped running of line, but not so with the fish, 
And the boat went along with a regular swish. 
Believe me, 'twas exciting; our heads we both lost 
In the heat of the race, at extravagant cost. 
What direction we went, or what distance away. 
When we came to our senses we neither could say. 
When we got down to reasoning, began to bestow 
Some thought on returning, but which way should we 

go? 
It was almost sunset, no land was revealed 
To the most careful search, though I think each 

concealed 
The anxiety felt. Papa steered, he thought, right, 
But the wind died away, so we drifted all night. 
And this morning again by the sun took a course 
Which we kept fairly well 'til the cyclone came hoarse 
87 



On our track with grim death at its side. You well 

know 
What came after. To you, Mr. Winthrop, we owe 
More than words can repay. It was God sent you there 
With your knowledge and strength, with your courage 

to dare 
In that terrible storm, and for those whom to you 
Were no more than the wind which around you there 

blew." 

XXXI 

Winthrop strong and courageous? He there sat to 

weep. 
He was thankful the darkness would that secret keep. 
It provoked him somewhat. 'Twas a weakness he'd 

hide, 
And he cross'd the floor softly to Sevrance's side. 
This move gave him time needed now to implore 
A quietness of nerves and his thoughts to restore. 
Returned to the woman, said in voice that, tho clear, 
Was of such moderate pitch it rang long in her ear, 
"It will be a great favor if you will refrain 
From referring to that slight assistance again. 
It is late now ; perhaps you would like to retire ; 
In that room where you were ; a few things you require 
And I have, I have put at your service. You'll not 
Find there all that you wish; but remember the spot 
Was for woman ne'er made. I will be within call 
Of your father's wants; let no anxieties fp^' 
88 



To your lot on that score. I will bid you good night." 
Seagrave soon was asleep ; he was thoroughly tired 
From the labors which came to the day just expired; 
And not even a dream of an angel form cross'd 
The region where he was in his weariness lost. 

XXXII 

When Miss Sevrance awoke, her first thought was 

'twas late, 
For the sunbeams were playing at check and checkmate 
On the panels of cedar ; the next what to wear, 
And the third was the snarl of her beautiful hair. 
The first did not matter; sorry fate fixed the next, 
But this scarcely prevented her becoming vex'd ; 
The third, with much patience, she disposed in a coil 
"Which she realized went in degree as a foil 
For the faults of her dress in which there was no 

choice. 
As she turned from the mirror, she heard a loud voice — 
'Twas Winthrop's to Sevrance, cheery call of "Good 

morn." 
The response, to her fancy, seemed rather forlorn, 
And compelled her to hasten; 'twas needless alarm. 
For her father's eyes glowed in a way to disarm 
The most credulous, as Winthrop showed his big 

catch — 
A fish with life lusty, great as one man could fetch, 
Whose scales dripping with brine glowed in sunlighted 

hints 

89 



Of all the revealings of the prismatic tints. 

When the breakfast was served it was a model repast; 

The coffee was perfect, and its aroma cast 

On the air of the room let no appetite fail; 

The fish done to a turn, three nicely broiled quail, 

A yam baked in hot sand, puffy rolls, and, not least, 

Fine fruit from his own trees fully rounded the feast. 



XXXIII 

Then thy talked. Seagrave found it was pleasant once 

more 
To hear voices ; a woman's within his own door 
Was an event unexpected, but none the less glad 
Did he hear it and thank the misfortune which had 
Cast her lot to his keeping — a woman of sense 
With whom conversation had full recompense. 
He had duties to do — he must leave them awhile. 
He would show her some books, and she time might 

beguile 
If a volume to suit could be found; opened all 
Of the panels which seemed but as part of the wall 
And revealed such a wealth of book lore to excite 
A more stolid observer; she said she'd delight 
To pick over his store; 'twas a wonder, indeed; 
If she had them, she thought she'd do nothing but read, 
More especially down here, where a person could find 
Little else, to her thinking, to occupy mind. 
90 



"Select whatever gives pleasure — do not refrain — 
Everything's at your service — I say it again." 
And Seagrave, with rifle in the bend of his arm, 
Was soon lost 'mong the trees. It was not without 

charm 
To Miss Sevrance to be in this exotic air, 
An experience with which she had naught to compare. 
And yet all seemed so strange that it lacked of the real, 
But an image of fancy which fairies unseal 
For favorites who trust them; was this castle a fact 
Or a vision that rose on a mind overracked 
By the fever that came from the troubles and strain 
Of the day that had passed, and a disordered brain? 

XXXIV 

Alice read not a book, at least, not that forenoon^ 
She sat down with her hand in her father's and soon 
Was conversing of him who had gathered them out 
Of the shuddering sea at his peril, and about 
His remarkable house, in this far away zone 
Where he lived in the depths of its silence, alone. 
Was he happier here? Whence he came? When he 

came? 
Did her father suppose Seagrave Winthrop his name? 
Had he met with reverse, and come here to be free? 
Or advisable found it to hitherward flee? 
Could it be that his record was tainted with guilt? 
Had no other been here? Could alone he have built 
91 



Such a structure as this? And why built it, and how? 

Did genius versatile ever one man endow 

With abilities seen in himself and around? 

Would an answer to these many questions be found? 

XXXV 

"Well, my daughter, you might go ahead with surmise, 
And echo but answers — information denies. 
'Tis not proper, however, that we should forget 
We are here as his guests and, moreover, in debt 
Very deep to his bravery. Dost know what he did 
For us? Shall our mem'ry be treacherous? God 

forbid ! 
When that boat overturned and I crushed 'gainst its 

side, 
I saw you buried deep in the furious tide; 
I unable to move. O, the horrible pain 
That wrenched at my heart; when that man plunged 

in the main 
It seemed worse than useless, but I think that I prayed, 
I am sure that I hoped that the courage displayed 
Would have recompense. Did it? For when he, arose 
And so easily surmounted the waves* angry throes, 
He brought both to the land. Then just think what 

he did, 
And he wishes our gratitude stifled and hid. 
There he worked on you, Alice, with such earnest 

will— 

92 



Handled you as a child, with a mother's own skill; 
While I feared for the worst, I was almost amused. 
At the outset my brain was a good deal confused, 
But the rain perhaps cleared it, at any rate I 
Found myself ciphering up what I gathered by eye. 
Winthrop's a man you can bank on, worthy of trust. 
He's both blunt and reserved ; do not question ; you 

must 
Let him tell his own tale, if he will, otherwise 
We will ignorant remain, and evince no surprise. 
It is certain he was into higher sphere born. 
And from it by his act for some reason torn." 

XXXVI 

Miss Sevrance with papa did not always agree, 

But his estimate now was near her own decree 

Arrived at by instinct, and instinct is above. 

To a woman, mere logic, in business or love 

And she'll make up her mind on the instant, and true, 

Where man, very often, will go floundering through 

With his learning and wit, a stern reasoning maze. 

And never get clear of the encompassing haze. 

But Alice went further, and gave Seagrave a part 

In some former unhappy affair of the heart. 

What but that, was her thought, would drive man to 

deny 
To himself all the world? And, without knowing why, 
And somewhat to her anger, her sympathies flew 
93 



To this man whom her sex so sorrowfully knew. 

His house without woman — it must be in a state! 

And why idle her time when she might regulate 

This household, and aid him? But astonishment rose 

Upon finding the rooms would so little disclose 

Of want of attention. From the place where she slept 

To the kitchen outside, it was perfectly kept 

As to cleanliness. But there, of course, were those 

things 
Which to dwellings a woman's attentiveness brings ; 
But these not in her province, she to herself said, 
As her dimpled checks daintily lighted with red. 

XXXVII 

Yet when Winthrop returned, he could easily trace 

Such evidence of that indescribable grace 

As belongs to the feminine — a trifling change, 

As more aptly the whole she could deftly arrange. 

This was second; he first saw the table was spread, 

And, in apron, Miss Sevrance was cutting the bread, 

And there poised, knife in hand, half expecting his 

frown. 
And perhaps a strong word might her happiness drown. 
He no syllable said, but his eyegleam conveyed 
A message that more than her disquiet allayed. 
It was one of approval, and of gladness, if she 
Read it right. She addressed him "I thought you 

might be 

94 



Late, and dinner is ready; have I made a mistake? 
For, perhaps, sir, you think woman can't broil or bake !" 
"That irony's unfounded. On the contrary, I praise 
Miss Sevrance here and now. But a remiss host lays 
Any burden on guest. Let me show you the fruit 
Of ihe morning's hot chase — a buck deer — noble brute — 
There he lies on the bench ; and the antlers, I trow, 
Shall as a memento to my fair lady go. 
But what's of more value, if no error I'm in. 
To you, that is — in short — coming back — I have been 
To the mainland — I went to the scene of the wreck; 
The boat's pretty well smashed, but from under the 

deck, 
When I brought what was left to the dry land, I drew 
What is doubtless your property — this portmanteau. 
Very v/et, I presume, but the sun's rays cure such 
Damage soon." "I thank you, Mr. Winthrop, so much." 

XXXVIII 

With the dinner disposed of — a dinner that had 
Deserved praise and full justice, and Winthrop, reclad 
In dress more befitting an afternoon's leisure. 
Sat down to receive, and perhaps to give pleasure. 
Very soon he grew chatty, and to Sevrance told 
Many exploits of hunting and fishing, to hold 
The patient's attention, make the hours seem less long. 
There were mats on the floor ; "that one used to belong 
To a tiger, a mammoth indeed for these parts. 
95 



Any danger? Oh, no. With their cowardly hearts 
They'll sneak into the brush if allowed half a chance; 
We have no beasts down here that on man will advance ; 
The rattlesnake, even, only strikes in defense, 
And more often than not waits for serious offense. 
And they're few : why, I've tramped o'er the land now 

ten years. 
And but five times that rattle has rung in my ears — 
It's a sound one remembers with something of dread. 
The metallic, sharp ring — of those five snakes, four 

shed 
Their gray skins to my knife; one hangs there on 

that nail. 
Measures nine feet in length, buttons twelve on its tail. 
That bear skin in your room, Miss Sevrance, let me 

show 
It out here. On that morning, my courage fell low — ■ 
Seemed to drop to my boots, for a moment. I sat 
In a palmetto shade for a rest, with my hat 
Pulled well down. I had cut a bee tree, and had 

brovight 
Of bright honey two pails, which this big fellow sought 
For plunder. I heard first the leaves rustle, and then 
A dark shadow, the substance close followed, and when 
Aly eye measured the brute, I was wholly bereft 
Of my senses. My rifle at home I had left 
And now wanted. But there was my axe, and to think 
Was to act, and I struck at his head. Quick as a wink, 
His paw sent that axe flying; he took me within 
96 



His huge arms, and I laughed, spite of fear, at his grin, 
'Tvvas so funny ; the hug was more serious. I vow 
I can feel his hot breath on my cheek even now. 
But I had my good knife — this steel blade — and by luck 
It drank his heart's current, with such vigor I struck. 
You can see here the knife thrust, and these scars 

remain yet 
On my necl: v/hcre the fellow his sharpened teeth set." 

XXXIX 

"Don't you think," Sevrance said, "you great danger 

invite 
Being wholly alone? Why, an accident might 
At any time happen, and with no person by 
You would by yourself in this wilderness die." 
"I realize perfectly the risk that I run. 
But if it differs from what befalls any one 
Of the kingdom 'tis only in way of degree 
Every man born of woman is an agency free 
To act his own pleasure within limits, of course, 
Immutably fixed by the Omnipotent force. 
And the desire for life is impregnated deep 
In all creatures of God that walk, swim, fly or creep ; 
The more danger threatens, the more strength they 

unfold 
To guard 'gainst it, and they when attacked grow more 

bold 
In fight for the one thing that is all things to them. 
97 



And I, located here on the world's outer hem, 
Have employed proper care, and regard it with pride, 
For my body, and you for yourself can decide 
The result. No philosophy's needed to show 
That sickness is useless, and physicians more so ; 
The one is an outgrowth of man's folly and sin, 
And gives birth to the other, who gladly turns in 
And helps its promoter along, and at present 
Half the world ails; truly, a percentage are bent 
To the yoke of congenital malady, and 
The folly goes back to some progenitor's hand. 
I have kept sound in health, and existence enjoyed 
More than ever before; and my spirit is buoyed 
By the freedom I feel in my untrammeled acts 
With no crowd to dictate — or to follow — my tracks. 
But suppose a disaster should, after all, thrust 
At my vitals — to all living creatures it must 
Soon or late — I believe I possess fortitude 
To endure to the end. I should rise o'er the rude 
Foresit beast, which lies down and in silence awaits 
Whatever may come from the all-ruling Fates. 
And I fondly imagine that the Paradise 
W^here mankind's hopes gather as near to me lies 
In my loneliness here on this Isle of the Bless'd 
As if in some city among thousands I press'd, 
With this further advantage, that I'll trouble no one 
For their tears, praise, or curse, when my journey 
is done." 



98 



"But your parents, or brothers, or friends?'* said the 

man 
On the bed. "No remark of that sort ever can 
Move my breast. They are dead." "That seems 

strange, and so sad," 
Said Miss Sevrance. " 'Tis not, after all, very bad. 
They went out of the world one by one — I dare say — 
Yes, I'm sure, I missed some— 'twas for only a day." 
"But," said Sevrance, "mankind is gregarious ; his place 
By side of his kind, to be helped in the race, 
And so help on his brothers. Such a life as you live, 
Asking nothing from others, with nothing to give 
To the world, seems too selfish for one of your mein 
And knowledge excelling. You should be on the scene 
Of the world's great activities, having a part 
In its building and lifting, its science and art, 
In its laughter and love, in the sun of its hope, 
In its light and its learning — in short, its whole scope." 
"Suppose that I grant it; I then, under the rule 
Of exceptions claim right to establish the school 
Where I study. Those shelves show the world under 

bond 
To my every request for ils learning respond. 
Am I doing my share? I don't know. Who can sit 
On the work of another and give judgment fit? 
Perhaps no one but God ; yet the world never sinks 
To a modest reserve in the thoughts which it thinks." 
This vv^as rebuke severe — perhaps justly incurred 
And the man in reply at command had no word. 
99 



XL 



A few moments of silence, and Miss Sevrance said : 
"Far away from the subject of mats you've been led, 
And just now I have taken more interest in these; 
Won't you tell me what that is, behind your chair, 

please?" 
"Oh, those are the pelts of the fish eating otter, 
The best fur in the south, and the softest by far ; 
There are six skins in that. Nearly two hundred hides 
Of the little gray cat-squirrel in this one, besides 
The border of wood rat. In that the fox squirrel — 
The Sciurus Niger — with the tails that they curl — 
The shadow tails proper — o'er their backs to their 

nose." 
The young lady examined in most graceful pose, 
"Shall I find," said Miss Sevrance, "a limit to your 
Many accomplishments?" "Oh, yes, Madam; be sure 
That on every one's path 'can't' has marked out a line." 
Then, the subject to change: "Have you e'er seen 

those fine 
Soft drawings of wood-life by Gibson, a later 
Thorean of the pencil, whose fond Alma Mater 
Is Nature's exhibits of the forest and field? 
I have them in books here, and perhaps they will yield 
Entertainment a while." As he turned o'er the leaves 
He sat close by her side. His breast swelled as the sea's 
When the tempest is on. Why was he, the recluse 
And the stoic who'd sworn to forever refuse 

100 



Influence of woman, to in weakness submit 

To the first handsome one close by whom he might sit 

In the langorous air of this beautiful South, 

Feel her breath on his cheek, see the pearls of her 

mouth? 
To be charmed by her words falling soft on his ear? 
To be chained to her side as a slave to appear? 
When it fell on his mind, he grew angry and swore 
By the sorrow that came from experience before 
It should not occur twice. It were better by far 
That between he should place the effectual bar. 
So nicely accomplished, of an absence from home. 
The woods his resort were, and why should not he roam 
From morning 'til sunset through their entrancing 

aisles? 
'Twere a more noble scheme than be lured by the smiles 
And the wiles of a woman — to that which he gave 
Erstwhile and in anguish to the dead, and the grave. 



XLI 



This was what reason said, and he reasoned it out, 
As he walked in the gloom, and he never would flout 
The result of his logic. Her father soon well, 
She would go with him hence. Again Seagrave would 

dwell 
In the quiet of his home, in its safety and peace, 
And this sporadic case of emotion would cease. 
Man's reasoning he sometimes believes without faults, 

lOI 



When in each of its members the conclusion halts. 

To in other phrase put it, man will not be bound 

By that which his reason declares perfectly sound. 

But, mind you, I say not reason's finale is right — 

It is sometimes as far off as day from the night. 

But, if reason allowed, reflex action would oft 

Find the better result — instinct, intuitive, soft 

And identified scarcely. 'Twas knowing this fact 

Led the witty French statesman to advise : Never act 

On first impulse, because 'tis invariably right. 

But still, I'm not saying, even now, in the fight 

For worldly possessions that reason does not beam 

O'er mere intuition with a glory supreme; 

But only at some points the impressions speak true 

Before reason assembles the case to review. 

And when finally it does, it is often debased 

By the mazes perplexing with which 'tis inlaced. 

But be this as you will, I know Winthrop's resolve 

Went as mists of the morning the sun's rays dissolve. 

To his patient he talked the same night, but waited 

With a longing as if 'twas a time to her fated 

For Miss Sevrance to come, when, in light that was 

thrown 
From the mid-eastern sky where Astarte full shone, 
They lived with the poets, from Spencer to Byron, 
Quoted from Tennyson, until the environ 
Effervesced with the warmth of the heart's ecstacy; 
And concluded with Poe's lines of Annabel Lee, 
Which Winthrop recited in his musical voice 

102 



And gave it a meaning which left Alice no choice 
But to think that beyond the mere words that he spoke 
Was a memory which had from its slumber awoke. 

XLII 

And 'twas so the next day ; and the day after that, 

Until, humiliated, he gave up combat 

That his intellect waged against emotions of heart; 

While his absence from her gave more of the smart 

To his breast than he cared to confess. He was weak 

Where precisely he thought he was strong. Did he seek 

To revolt? So he said. But then there was the fact. 

So embodied beyond denial, of his act — 

Like the smoker who says he could quit, but still 

smokes, 
Like the bibber, who's pos'tive that when he invokes 
Resolution, he'll stop, but who ever adheres 
To the liquor that gives transient joy while it sears 
The feelings and conscience — and still under the thumb 
Of the slavers the victims grow faint, and succumb. 

XLIII 

She took up the labors, as by right, which befit 
One — a woman — at head of a house, and she lit 
Every room by the grace of her presence. The two 
Worked toegther in kitchen oft times, and when 
through 

103 



With the cares of the house, she with needle and thread 
Would intently be mending — his clothes. And he read 
At those times from a book for her father — and her. 
For her father, perhaps, but to her who could stir 
To the bottom his passion; he deemed it enough 
To be there by her side, and to feel no rebuff 
As he looked into her hazel, deep dreamy eyes, 
And observed the faint blush that would spring in 

surprise 
When she saw his devotion. When Sevrance improved 
A week after the accident — so that he moved 
By the help of a crutch to the porch, then beyond. 
The two followed and made a pretention to lend 
An assistance not needed; and if by mistake 
They got off by themselves, it was all for the sake 
Of the schooling thus had — of the knowledge it gave 
The young lady who found fiowers and trees by 

Seagrave 
Were deciphered as books ; he could utter the name 
Of each one in the Latin, and could place the same 
By its family and genus. Anon he'd entwine 
For the maiden a wreath of the scented jasmine 
Or would gather and bind in a sunny boquet 
The bright calopogons and blue stars of the day. 
These hours held heart's laughter and gave sunshine 

of soul. 
And the joy they had from it was more than the whole 
Of existence. The past so entirely forgot 
And the future uncared for, or, if so, as not 
104 



Unlike the warm present with its delicious balm 
And they bidden to rest in its heavenly calm. 

XLIV 

To the patient, Seagrave gave attention and aid, 
So helpless he kept him on the bed where he laid 
For a week. Half that time he cut open the wrap 
And disclosed that the hurt was fast closing the gap 
Which lay between uselessness and soundness regained. 
With continued prudence he might, Winthrop explained, 
In four days move a little; in ten he would tell, 
As his surgeon, he could go forth perfectly well. 
With proviso, of course, he must use every care 
And do naught to frustrate the gain each day could 

bear. 
"And then I would ask you, noble knight, how I may 
Get back to the mainland? Have you means to convey 
To the port whence I started on that foolish trip? 
But I've met with a service repaid by the lip 
Very feebly indeed. May the future give chance 
To requite the great debt, aye make even advance." 
"If debt there was any, 'tis already repaid 
By the glow to my house, which your presence has 

made; 
For, in truth, you are first who has entered and 

blest 
This home of my building, and a most welcome guest 
Though you came to it sadly enough on that day 
105 



Of the storm." "It was awful." "The Furies will play- 
Such occasional pranks in this warm latitude ; 
But they always give warning ; I saw that storm brewed 
In the Southwest afar, full an hour ere it showed 
To your unpracticed eye; otherwise, when it strode 
To a gale you'd have been safely out of its track." 
"It is possibly so ; but I ever did lack 
In deciphering the signs of the weather, and here 
It's a treacherous thing." "Well, yes ; somewhat, I 

fear." 
"But a boat — have you one?" "Yes, most surely; I 

could 
Not have lived in this place without that. It is good 
For all uses and safe. When recovered you go 
In my charge, to be landed securely, and so 
There a pleasure will end." "Do you make that remark 
As a mere compliment?" "Not at all." "Then embark 
For the world. It would seem you're away from your 

place 
In so utterly being cut off from the race. 
Go with us. I am sure naught would give more delight 
Than to entertain you at my home; give you sight 
Of the American Athens. I'll guarantee 
That you'll have a good time." "I thank you. It suits 

me 
Perfectly here. A decade and more on this isle 
Where the one Master teaches, has taught me to smile 
At the follies and crimes upon which the world thrives, 
And for which in its weakness it barters its lives. 
1 06 



I have here been content." "Will you tell me what 

freak 
First induced you to such isolated place seek? 



XLV 

"For any — for all acts, a man can exhibit 

His reasons, but often the case will prohibit 

His relating the truth. There are causes complex 

And attempt to depict them is only to vex 

The mind with insolvable problems. All I say 

To you is that 'twas predetermined. This way 

I set sail, as did you, and by chance found this spot. 

I liked it, and lingered, and finally would not 

Give it up, and I builded with purposes leal 

And have brought actuality out of ideal." 

"But tell me, do you hold a purpose to spend 

All the rest of your days here; to here wait the end?" 

"That I scarcely have weighed. The event is far off, 

Or I hope so, at least. When or where we shall doff 

Our earthly rough casing never troubled my brain. 

To live right and do right is a creed to sustain 

Man throughout the brief day which he's destined to 

find 
On earth, and he need not o'er the end rack his mind. 
Life is decay of the atoms; each moment dies 
Some part of the system. When no longer Strength 

vies 

107 



With Destruction, the heart becomes still, and the 

breast. 
Sans its burden and cares, sinks forever to rest. 
That is all. Death is life, and delightful, unbroken, 
Disturbed never more by the word that is spoken 
By the savage of earth. I am free to avouch 
That with joy when the time comes I'll welcome the 

couch 
Spread for slumber so long ; and where naught 

interferes 
'Mid a glory profound, and the music of spheres 
For ever inviting; and there'll come to my side 
All the spirits of those who on earth did abide 
In my friendship and love and the seons bedew 
With a memory old in an existence that's new." 

XLVI 

Sped quickly a fortnight ; and another week rolled 
Into Time's fateful chasm. And at ease in the fold 
Of their friend they remained; the whole island 

explored, 
From the deep mango groves to the waters that poured 
From mysterious depths that refreshed beyond wine, 
So cool, sparkling and soft, in the midst of the brine. 
Their talks took a wide range, in the shadowy lairs, 
And if either one thought that another sowed tares 
In the field controversial, it passed unobserved, 
But the ripe fruits of utterance all were preserved, 
io8 



'Til each one to the other grew high in esteem. 
If the lord of the isle measured out the full dream 
Of the maiden as what proper hero should be 
'Twas no matter for wonder, as you will agree. 

XLVII 

But at last, Sevrance said in a tone positive 

In the charm of the place he no longer would live; 

Its entrancements had held, and he'd long overstaid 

Decent limits, and now duty must be obeyed. 

Or his business would go to the bow-wows, or, worse, 

His executor might undertake to disperse 

It, believing the principal dead. Would their host 

Take them off on the morrow, to Myers on the coast? 

Thus enlarging the debt which already had grown 

To size so colossal they scarcely dare own. 

XLVIII 

With reluctance, Seagrave gave assent. He felt 
Culmination drew near, when his visions would melt 
Into vapor and go, or grow real. It meant much 
To his heart and his soul. Did such deep feelings touch 
The loved Alice Sevrance? Was he fool, not to know? 
V/as he deaf to a sigh? Was he blind to the glow 
Of her deeply lashed eyes, which so oft met his own 
That she censured herself for the boldness thus shov/n? 
He went slowly at work making ready his boat 
109 



With confusion of mind, and a dryness of throat 
From musings entangling o'er what manner of phrase 
He the subject should broach. Should he utter the 

praise 
Which arose to his lips every moment he thought 
Of this woman whose charms to his heart hanger 

brought 
A macarian rest? He determined, forsooth, 
Just nothing save this, that he would tell her the truth 
Before parting; and so he returned to his hall 
Whose ceilings would echo never more the soft fall 
Of her foot, or her songs. Would the silences be 
The same and as restful as they were before she 
His retreat invaded? He knew well they would not, 
And he dreaded already the gloom of the spot 
When this girl should have gone. He with will force 

assayed 
More of cheer than he felt. The last night that she 

staid 
Should, if he had the power, be so happily spent 
That around it their thoughts should forever be blent. 

XLIX 

He succeeded, at least with the maiden, beyond 
Any hopes which he had. Still unable to bend 
His mind to a programme, the events moved along 
By chance of occasion, from reciting to song. 
And with stories of life, 'til the evening expired 
no 



Leaving much to be said which they would have 

desired. 
Sevrance told them a tale of a journey he made 
When a boy to the west, with the first to invade 
California where finding of gold had set wild 
A whole continent wide, 'til the eastern born child 
Even wanted to go to shear part of the fleece 
That the pockets would fill, and show still an increase. 
There were hardships enough over mountains and 

plains. 
Where he broiled in the sun and was soaked by the 

rains, 
And at last he hurrahed with his feet on the shore 
Of the swift flowing stream where he dipped for the ore 
That eluded his grasp — it was always ahead 
Or to one side, but never where he chanced to tread. 
There were mud, wet and hunger for this Argonaut. 
But the pennyweights few of the metal he sought. 
And he no exception ; for to one who found gold 
And could keep it, a thousand grew haggard and old 
In the mad, reckless strife, or succumbed to the break 
Of their glorious dream. Sevrance pulled up his stake 
And came back to the East, where the law would 

provide 
An influx of nuggets which the West had denied. 



Then the young people sang several vivacious songs, 
III 



Her soprano ringing as a voice that belongs 
To a i.roud cantratrice, and its echoes returned 
From the dark forest walls, 'til the soul of him burned 
With the fire of its thrill; and she felt that his ej^es 
Through the gloom looked at her with a warmth that 

gave rise 
To a bhish, and she trembled. Then a silence fell 
On the two, and it held them env/ound in the spell 
Of the wholly indefinite. Sevrance asleep 
In his chair left the vigils the others to keep. 
Alice whispered: " 'Tis late." "Aye, said Winthrop, 

"You see 
Those stars — it is Hydra — o'er the top of that tree? 
When they're there in this month, 'tis past midnight. 

I'll sing 
You a song, if you please." "Do. A farewell to bring 
This last night which we spend on your isle to a close. 
We long since should have been, I am sure, in repose." 
With brief hesitation, as if he would make choice, 
He began in low key, but with sonorous voice : 

LI 
J\fy Heart Goes Where Thou Mayest Go 

O with the hour of parting near 
I would one whispered word bestow 

To say when thou'rt no longer here 
My heart is where thou mayest go — 
My heart goes where thou mayest go. 

112 



And III remember all these days 

Which thou hast made so quickly flow, 

And where thy life and what thy ways 
My heart is where thou mayest go — 
My heart goes where thou mayest go. 

And silent will my castle be, 

When it thy accents does not know, 

But thou shalt live in memory — 
My heart is where thou mayest go — 
My heart goes where thou mayest go. 

And darkness here shall henceforth reign 
In halls illumined by thy glow 

But symbols of these shall remain 
My heart is where thou mayest go — 
My heart goes where thou mayest go. 

The forest paths will lose their light, 
The flowers less beautiful will blow. 

And hope alone will live as bright — 
My heart is where thou mayest go — 
My heart goes where thou mayest go. 

with the hour of parting nigh 

My words fall falteringly and low, 

1 for the future breathe a sigh — 

My heart is where thou mayest go — 
My heart goes where thou mayest go. 
113 



LII 



The last note died away ; and the maiden was gone — 
Fled in silence and swiftly, as some startled fawn 
At the sound of the huntsman. She felt her heart beat 
With excitement and fright, as she made her retreat 
Without saying good night. And the song's refrain 

kept 
So repeating itself that 'twas long ere she slept. 



LIII 



Sweetly slumbered the town 'neath the low April sun 

In reserve that befalls when the season is done 

And the anglers are gone. And the fishing boats 

moored 
Near shore or at anchor, and the yachts were immured 
In close canvas covers. At this hour the broad breast 
Of the river was crimsoned with fire from the west; 
While in border of black, 'long the low shining bank 
Showed the palms and the cocoanuts in inverted rank. 
The wind which had been strong all the day and gave 

speed, 
Fell away with the sun to a zephyr, indeed, 
With occasional flaw, and Seagrave's whitened sail 
Idly flapped, and then drew. They heard never a hail 
From a seaman abroad — there were now none afloat 
Save thsese three from the isle, in their long, lazy boat, 
Which scarce held its dull way in advance of the tide. 
114 



Sevrance made effort slight his vexation to hide, ' 
Yet Winthrop put forward a true seafarer's skill 
In endeavor to draw his sheet so it would fill. 
Since the first light of morn and the earliest bird's 

song 
They had been on the way and all day rushed along 
'Til the water rolled up and came over the side ; 
And for them hours flew quickly, for either one vied 
In utterance of thoughts each deemed might be the 

last— 
Or they feared it, perhaps, and the future would cast 
Far asunder their paths, and in each throbbing breast 
Were deep longings evolved which were not yet 

express'd 
Through softened tone and electric glances intense, 
Conveying swiftly ardent love's intelligence. 
The sun, red and swollen by refraction of light, 
On the planet's brim poised and then dropped out of 

sight ; 
And above, as the stars appeared one by one clear, 
Seagrave turned in his boat and made fast to the pier. 



LIV 



At the town's sole hotel, they had dinner late set, 
Which they relished, and seasoned with their jokes, 

and yet 
There was dread undercurrent of low somberness 
Which each one strove in turn, but in vain, to suppress. 
"5 



Can the heart say farewell with the ease that the tongue 
Will issue the mandate, and be by it not wrung? 
Somewhat later, in brief as they sat on the stoop, 
Sevrance told of his wreck to an inquiring group. 
Was informed by mine host that his effects were safe, 
And retained for the day of return of the waif; 
Then few questions revealed that a boat would depart 
On the morrow for Trabue and Sevrance would start, 
Not dismayed when all said it was weezy and frail, 
A concern good enough for the government mail. 
Up and down thrice a week the irregular line 
Of the coast. Said Sevrance : "Though it may not 

be fine, 
We will take it because 'tis the best at command, 
And we cannot at slight inconvenience now stand." 



LV 



Seagrave turned to Miss Sevrance : "Would you like 

to go 
For a stroll on the street? The attractions I'll show." 
The attractions of Myers! But Seagrave did not draw 
Her attention to them. She remembered she saw 
The stars shining above, and the blue hemisphere. 
And the wavy outlines of the trees 'gainst it clear. 
And, v/hen far up the street, from the city away, 
They, arm in arm, halted underneath a sweet bay 
And listened a moment to the lamenting call 
Of a lone whippoorwill that came up from the pall 
ii6 



Of dank timber which fringed the low bank of the 

stream. 
Oh ! These tropical scenes, they live long as a dream 
In a mind which partakes of their balmy delights — 
The velvety softness of the star-lighted nights 
Oft oppress'd with perfume of the lemon and lime 
The magnolia and orange, and the white cape jasmine. 



LVI 



Half in shadow they stood, as entranced with the scene. 
Then to his companion Winthrop said most serene: 
"With Miss Sevrance compelled on my island to dwell 
I refrained, from that fact, from advancing to tell 
What has burned in my mind and welled up in my 

heart. 
Yet determined to utter it ere you depart. 
Here in Myers, where you are, as it were, on your 

heath, 
I can speak, and I say from the first that beneath 
The sang froid which I tried to maintain there has 

been 
A hot passion of love, vexed with doubts could I win 
One so sweet. You must take me, I fear, as I show, 
As I could, I have been as I am. Only so 
Would I have you to know me ; and add, I have not 
Always lived in the wilderness, nor have forgot, 
Or I trust not, the ways of the world which I left 
And unto which I, if of this hope not bereft 
117 



Shall return, for I would never have you to think 
That I any woman I would marry would sink 
In seclusion so deep. May I hope and believe 
That the love which I offer you'll harbor and weave, 
Alice sweet, in your life? Ah, thank God for the way 
You uplift your dear eyes. Oh, they do not say nay. 
While the future again holds the charm of the past 
And life has a mission and a splendid contrast 
With the selfish pursuit of a hermit to keep 
In a pretense of virtue and o'er the world weep. 
Ah, this night is to me a new heaven, I feel 
And I'll put on thy brow of my purpose this seal." 



LVII 

"Mr. Winthrop, I know that a woman should save 
All her words in reserve, though her warm heart may 

crave 
In its passion as ne'er a man's dares to, I ween, 
But I could not say aught in this hour that would mean 
More to you than you've guessed; and to say we'll be 

pleased 
To see you in Boston whenever you've ceased 
Playing recluse down here." "That were easy, I'm 

sure ; 
The events of this night have for that proved a cure." 
"For my papa has said very often of late 
That no other one thing would his feelings elate 
ii8 



As to have you for guest." "And did Miss Sevrance 

say 
A word on the subject?" "She will now, if she may, 
Tell you 'twould delight her." "Then indeed I decline 
Not, and come — let me see when — I'll drop you a line." 
"A line, Mr. Winthrop?" "That is figurative, quite; 
With permission from you, I will hasten to write, 
And write often the news from the seat of unrest, 
For such, with you absent, is the Isle of the Blest." 

LVIII 

At the house, Sevrance saw at the first glance he caught 
Of the love-lighted eyes which his daughter had brought 
From her walk was convincing — he needed no word 
To explain the affair, and when later he heard 
From the maiden's fresh lips the sweet news, saw the 

shine 
In her beautiful orbs which was almost divine. 
It affected his heart, and he told her she'd won 
A man of royal stamp whom he'd take as a son 
First of all whom he knew, and none less she deserved ; 
But profoundly his first thought in silence preserved; 
Though he had due regard for the parental bands. 
He was glad it was settled, and she off his hands. 
Was there ever a man of his consort bereft 
Who did not entertain for a daughter thus left 
Wholesome fear, and rejoice when in answer to love 
She accepted a man of whom he could approve? 
119 



By the side of his wife is a man in contrast 

In the method of making a mould for the cast 

Of the lives of their children. There's nothing of size 

In the world like the motherly self sacrifice 

In aid of her offspring. No love of another 

Begins to compare with the love of a mother 

'Tis so pure yet intense, of the seraphic strain, 

And endures to the end without falter or wane. 

And of hardship and toil she will take no account 

If thereby her children are enabled to mount 

In careers that are useful to place in life's field — 

And her recompense is in a heaven unsealed. 

'Tis the boys of their teaching who have become great 

As the leaders of men and the builders of state; 

Tis their creed that's been carved by the sword and 

the pen, 
And the world is in debt to the mothers of men. 



LIX 



Though the people had gone, as 'twas said, one staid 

yet 
From the tourist crowd lost, perhaps not with regret. 
A dark, low-statured man, with hair midnight in hue. 
And regular features so pronounced that they drew 
More than one look, and black eyes with sinister tricks 
Of superbly flashing, but which no gaze could fix. 
This one stood just outside as Seagrave early came 
For a walk out of doors contemplating to tame 

120 



His high spirits; his thoughts at the time far afield, 
But this man blocked the way, and with insolence 

steeled, 
Held place in the passage. " 'Tis Winthrop, I believe ?" 
"Yea, believe it, and know." "Memory does not deceive 
Me oft in my acquaintance." "Well, what futher 

would you?" 
"You this morning are curt. Did late hour in the dew 
Chill your system ?" he spoke ; ere the last word escaped 
He sprawled flat on the sand, lying there, for breath 

gaped. 
" 'Twould doubtless be hopeless undertaking to teach 
Such a puppet as you to be civil in speech." 
The other stood upright, said, as he brushed the wet 
From his clothes : " 'Tis a plain case of assault." 

"A threat?" 
"Not a threat; just the fact. I intended no wrong. 
I'm not known, that is plain ; it's not strange 'tis so long 
Since we were at college ; yet you should recollect 
The one whose career and graduation was wrecked 
By your virtue o'erbearing — an unwarranted blow." 
"Not forgotten, Dave Dyke; but why now should you 

grow 
On my sight once again?" "Perhaps so as to tell 
That I'm no longer dunce, but have prospered full 

well." 
"Why, then, so much the worse. What by your kind 

is gained 

121 



Must, of course, be by fraud and by devilishness 

stained." 
So marched Seagrave away, and the other's clenched 

fist 
Was shaken in hatred, and he serpent-Hke hissed: 
"Oh, I'll pay you well out. You know little the power 
I possess, and by which can be wrecked your high 

tower, 
Oh, heaven, make it hell. And the woman will help 
And with complaisance will hear you as punished dog 

yelp. 
Winthrop of old held his head above fellowmen. 
And has not since changed. So did Lucifer; but then 
He fell, and will this one. Thousands have brains as 

big 
As those under his hat. I the power have to rig 
Forces of Belzebub to away sweep the earth 
From under his feet, and to show him 'tis not birth. 
Books, nor wealth gives strength. Perchance he would 

not succumb. 
Coarsely fed, coarsely grained, and to fine feelings 

dumb. 
And do I the brute want? Far less risky for Dyke 
To make use of the woman, and him through her strike. 
Much more sensitive she, with nerves not so concealed; 
And when under influence she quickly will yield 
And do what she's bid, and thus Winthrop's I'll show 
How kindness to his love will repay for that blow." 



122 



LX 



Mr. bevrance came down, running straight against 

Dyke. 
"What, the devil, you here?" "I am here, but don't like 
The abrupt word you use." "Indeed! what brought 

you here?" 
"Perchance pleasure, or business. It is nothing queer 
For one who has funds — and — time — to take a brief run 
From the cold of the north to this land of the sun. 
And I lengthened my stay on discovering your track, 
And being informed you would probably be back — 
I felt sure you would be me delighted to meet." 
"But I'm not, and I charge you to be most discreet 
And be absolute stranger, 'til we are away." 
"Who is the young lady?" "She's my daughter." 

"Don't say! 
That you were so favored, I was never aware. 
I should like the acquaintance of woman so fair." 
"Oh, impossible that!" Such word's not entertained 
Between friends such as we are. Tell the truth, I'm 

pained 
That objection you have. Should I make the demand 
I perchance hold the card whose play would force your 

hand. 
Let the lady make choice ; I will not ask your aid. 
Of the outcome I'm sure I will not be afraid. 
But your fingers keep oflf. We can't fail to agree, 
And you fairly can urge no objections to me." 
123 



Then he turned on his heel, leaving Sevrance to swear, 
"What a scoundrelly cuss, doubly damned, and he dare ! 
My impression somehow with a subtlery trend 
That the beginning is here of this comedy's end." 



LXI 



When they went the next morning to the steamer which 

lay 
At her moorings at end of the frail timber quay, 
Winthrop saw, and he frowned, that his enemy there 
Had arrived, and was fixed, with a debonnair air, 
In a chair at the stern, where the awning gave shade 
From the sun which was out in full splendor and made 
The air quiver with heat, scarcely modified by 
The zephyr that threatened every minute to die. 
He had said ere the start his most tender farewell 
And express'd the fond hope to hear ringing the bell 
For their wedding full soon. Now he could only see 
The poor comforts were hers for the trip on the sea 
Which the small boat afforded; annoyed and surprised 
At foreboding distrust at the way Alice eyed 
The dark man, and her words : "He is handsome. Do 

you 
Know his name?" "Yes, and no. But his name — 

there are few 
On the register now— I most certainly saw. 
And beyond that I wish to know naught, for I draw 
The conclusion 'tis safe to avoid him because 
124 



He's a rascal; if eyes ever showed up the flav/ 

In man's morals, his do." "You're not jealous, I 

hope?" 
"Not a bit." "Truly so?" "Truly." "There goes the 

rope." 
"Call it line on shipboard. Well, good bye, once again." 
And Seagrave jumped ashore as the boat felt the strain 
Of the wheel's revolutions, and stood on the pier, 
Watched the steamer far down, through the clear 

atmosphere ; 
The flutter of ribbons, then the small starry flag, 
And these lost 'round the Point, he still watched the 

long drag 
Of black carbon that came from the pitch pine 

employed. 
And which far astern floated and thinly deployed. 
Then he slowly walked back through the lone street, 

his mind 
Still on Alice, and felt even now the hard grind 
Of his loneliness; got his boat's prow to the west, 
And drave down with the tide tovv^ard the Isle of the 

Blest. 

LXII 

On the ship the dark man, near the mouth of the 

stream, 
Stretched his arms and arose, looked around, threw 

the gleam 

125 



Of his eyes on the girl, but her father addressed: 
"This trip tires the patience." "Oh, somewhat, but 

we're bless'd 
That we have any boat." "But this really is vile." 
"Tliere are worse ones, no doubt." "Yet a shame to 

beguile 
A traveler on this one. Is that Winthrop who came 
To the boat with you, friend?" "Do you know him?" 

"I claim 
A long standing friendship, and in college classmates; 
But he knows me not now — more than that, says he 

hates 
Me in sight." "Very strange." "Unexplained. I 

forgive 
Him — well, call it a mannerless act. Does he live 
In this section?" "He does." The sharp advocate's 

wits 
Were alert. Here a case must be guarded from its 
Ex-parte evidence. Yet he wondered his friend 
Knew this man and owned not. Still, no Sevrance 

must lend 
Information which Winthrop himself would have told 
Had he wanted it known, and which now might unfold 
To his possible hurt, and they owed him so much 
They must count possibility in what might touch 
His affairs. This man now had advantage enough 
And Sevrance must meet him without offering rebuff; 
So they chatted along about water, and air, 
126 



Birds, snakes, climate, trees, soil; praised the settlers 

who dare 
Break the forests to make themselves homes. Not the 

two 
Held the talk, for the magnetic traveler drew 
The young lady, almost 'gainst her wish, to partake 
In the colloctition. But her interest awake 
And engaged once, she found an agreeable man 
Of the world who could say airy nothings, and ran 
In a melliferous stream on and on, and held her 
'Til she argued, in shame, if this one she'd prefer 
To Seagrave, nor explain the ill thought when she tried. 
Well dressed and good mannered, with an air that 

implied 
He belonged at the front of the best social line. 
His glance gave commination she could not define, 
But she could not resist, or did not; at heart sick 
For submitting to Dyke, yet urged on by the pique 
Held toward Winthrop because he'd not freely explained 
What relations to him this strange man has sustained, 
Instead of evading, or, as she held, denying 
He knew him — biting her lip — it was lying. 
The conversation ran on ; the steamer as well. 
At the landings they gazed — Punta Rassa, Sanabel 
And Pine Island; at last, and about the hour due. 
They in safety debarked at the wharf in Trabue, 
Punta Gorda elsewise, which looks over the spread 
Of broad Charlotte Harbor, now purple and red. 
Crimson, lilac and gold, a most beautiful sight 
127 



In the sheen of the late afternoon's bright snnh'ght. 

LXIII 

In the cool morning air, when the dew spread around 

Like a rain over night for the grass and the ground, 

And the ozone was free to give vigor to life. 

The blue jays v/ere a-wing. and the mocking bird's fife 

Shrilly sounded, our three traveling people had place 

In the sleeper northbound at no hurrying pace 

Up the Peace River Valley, Sevrance would have had 

Air. Dkye remain back; still he was a good pad 

Now to knock up against for a couple of days. 

Through a low, level land which so little displays 

To interest awaken, and Dyke, what so his make 

Was decent acquaintance to the tediousness break. 

But he did more than this; he made haste to improve 

The occasion, without stepping out of the groove 

Of propriety strict. Neither bashful nor bold 

He succeeded, ere reaching New York to get hold 

Of the maiden's affection; he was asked to call, 

And the girl realized her mistake ere the fall 

Of the word, but the strength of this stranger's will 

force 
Overcame her and she felt like wax in the course 
Of formation by moulder ; she shuddered in dread. 
Yet constrained to remain by the glamor which shed 
Fear and liking at once, like the light which allures 
The frail moth from retreat, tho' it singes, ne'er cures 
128 



The inquisitive fault; save too deep in its breath 
The misguided insect flutters down to its death. 

LXIV 

{Mr. Winthrop to Miss Sevrance) 

"Darling Alice : — The days by the calendar are 
Counted not as they were ere thou, bright northern 

star, 
In my heaven arose, and the light of thee shone 
So all that was splendid theretofore in my zone 
Grew dark and disheart'ning by the vivid contrast. 
Now the days drag along with my thoughts ever cast 
On thy beauty and grace, on thy goodness and love. 
The attributes all of favored angels above. 
And I long for the hour when I'm bid to thy side 
And the word shall be said which will make you a 

bride. 
House and island the same ; nature's features as dear 
As they were in the past when thou entered my sphere, 
Or so reason declaims; but they do not so seem, 
And that happy time past appears only a dream 
Of impossible things, while I am now awake 
To the diviner phases of the life which thee make. 
All the verdure's unchanged, and the nightly dew 

weaves 
Its garlands of diamonds round the edge of the leaves 
And Golconda rivals when the sunbeams first flash 
129 



From Aurora's bright brow and her swift brushes dash 
With such color the east; and when evening draws 

nigh, 
From my door I behold many purple threads fly 
In and out and across the quadrant's crimson-rose, 
And the horizon's gold fringe fades, falters, and grows. 
All these colors reflected, 'til the Gulf's placid breast 
Seems a pathway that leads to the ultimate rest, 
Colors that when together oft fastened our gaze 
And in vain we sought adjectives wherewith to praise. 
They're the same as they were, but they're changed to 

my view. 
For my fancy paints now fairer, warmer, each hue 
With the glow of thy love. And my books are all here, 
But they're touched not nor read, and the pages once 

dear 
Have surrendered their charm, and another divine 
With a tenderness holds every thought which is mine. 
I hourly behold thee in the downy white folds 
Of the soft clouds which o'er the cerulean sky rolls. 
And I feel thy eyes glow in the stars of the night. 
Which above me, thou knowest, are wonderfully bright ; 
And thy voice ever sounds in the wind which comes o'er 
The waves and the forests, greeting me at my door. 
Have compassion, I, pray thee, for the Ihavoc here wrought 
In the life of this man whose affairs are distraught 
By thee, beauteous maid, and whose salvation will lie 
In thy early demand that thy affianced fly 



130 



With the speed of the whid — for his sails must be 

spread — 
To thy side in the north, and the word shall be said 
That will make thee the wife of a mortal thus raised 
To the happiest state, which the apostle praised. 
Let me hear from thee soon. Next to seeing thy face 
And enfolding thy form to its merited place 
On my passionate breast, that must answer ; a kiss — 
Very many, I send. O no single one miss. 
And a myriad more for thy lover please save. 
And believe me sincerely, in love, your 

Seagrave." 

LXV 

Sleeping Boston. The sun in midsummer array 

Had started the thousands to woods, mountains and 

bay, 
And in fashion's Back Bay, blinds in darkness were 

dra\vn. 
Save occasional place where the folks would not fawn 
On these edicts, or had other reasons as good. 
Who kept their home comforts which they well un- 
derstood 
Could not be found 'mid crowds at the summer resorts 
With the gossiping throngs and the lounging cohorts. 
At all events, Sevrance was at home, in the toils 
Of the legal profession, with its onsets and foils; 
Up a winner one day, down the next in defeat, 



But, whatever his luck at the bar, in receipt 
Of not too modest fees. Of all things he abhorred 
'Twas to be by the public a cheap lawyer scored; 
And he argued if men would rush into the law 
'Twas a luxury for which they their purses must draw. 
And Miss Sevrance at home, with a cousin remote 
Of her father's, a blonde, slender, tall, whom you'd vote 
Of line queenly, so proud was her way, and her tread 
Firm and regal; blue eyes large and bright, and her 

head 
Stately poised was adorned with a crown of rich hair, 
And a danger lay hid in its tangling lair ; 
If in friendship she bent, yet her sympathy held 
No close confidences which so ardently swelled 
In young Alice's heart, blind to blushes, which raised 
As she talked of her hero, and his courage praised. 
Yet, if truth must be told the fair Geraldine's brain 
Held much broader culture and of classical strain. 
She found way to contribute as her friend sat to write 
The first letter of love to her far distant knight, 
Curbed the frankness which Alice could not restrain, 
Threw in a suggestion of a Sappho refrain 
Which compelled Winthrop's pause, and he rightly felt 

sure 
That 'twas foreign to her ; would she stoop to procure — 
To purloin, in short? The suggestion once made, 
Tho' he scouted at it, yet it rankled and staid. 
But 'twas justified quite to fair Geraldine Snow: 
If he half met the praise he was one she would knov/, 
132 



And there sprang in her mind what she dare not give 

speech — 
That if Winthrop should come to her presence she'd 

teach 
Some things worth the knowing which surely would be 
Harkened to by an innocent from a lone key 
Far from women ; he might know his books as a sage ; 
But to feminine charge full as weak — as a page 
Of Dean Howell's. And she doubted never her style 
Would make capture; if not, that her tongue could 

beguile 
While Miss Sevrance would think what 'twas better 

to say. 
And, besides, was she not here to be in the way 
Of these lovers^ — this loving? Her mission was real. 
What is love but a trade? — in it nothing ideal. 

LXVI 

In the meantime, the dark Mr. Dyke had appeared 
At the Beacon Street house; and if Miss Sevrance 

feared 
His black eyes, as she said, 'twas a fear modified 
By a charm undefined when he came to her side, 
And she could not resist that which she should repel. 
And she said to her friend, as the softened light fell, 
In their chamber one night after David had left: 
"What — what power has this man? Is it some wicked 

weft 

133 



To be shot 'cross the warp of my life, and to spoil 
AH the future? He seems like a snake in a coil 
Getting ready to strike, and I shudder. Again, 
I'm attracted, and feel a luxurious pain, 
'Tis so queer a commingling of joy and distress. 
At times, tho' he's absent, his power comes to oppress, 
Like a deep shadow, spread as a pall o'er my soul. 
And I'm beckoned thro' gloom toward a desperate 

goal." 

Miss Snow 
"Oh, you poor, nervous child ! It is only a trick 
Of an overwrought brain. Surely, none would I pick 
From the hundreds of men as a gentleman born 
Before this Mr. Dyke, who would probably adorn 
Any circle haut ton. If your lover can match 
Him in manners and looks, you have made a good 

catch, 
And I bless you again as a woman whose luck 
Is freed from the evils of a mischievous Puck. 
But I'd not be surprised if to Boston he came 
He would seem like a bear really hopeless to tame." 

Miss Sevrance 
"Mr. Winthrop is noble, so learned, and so brave." 

Miss Snow 
"Oh, yes! Our lovers must be that always to save 
Their position. Each girl must some male from the 

race 
Make selection and raise to a heroic place 
134 



In her own mind." 

Miss Sevrance 
"You laugh." 

Miss Snow 

At the folly our sex 
Ever shows when a man takes occasion to vex 
Us with love." 

Miss Sevrance 
"You talk wild. And have never you known 
What it is to be loved?" 

Miss Snow 

"Yes, indeed. I must own 
To a dozen affairs of the kind. So you see 
That the story is worn pretty threadbare with me." 

Miss Sevrance 
"Are you joking?" 

Miss Snow 
"Don't cry, O my Alice; forgive. 
No. I should not have said what I did. Let love live 
In such breasts as it may. Here's a kiss for good night. 
May your hero still be of your dreams the delight." 

LXVII 

But Miss Sevrance's sleep was not sound, and her 

dreams 
Most depressing. In one she was crossing deep seams 
And rough ribs and scoria of a bleak lava bed 
135 



Whose rent fragments, sharp edged, bruised her feet 

till they bled; 
Not a tree, flower, nor shrub, showed itself in the glare 
Of yellowish green heat that swept down thro' the air. 
She limped, choking, along, when a wide fissure gaped 
From which up came a form that appall'd her. 'Twas 

shaped 
Like a man, yet no man. It had horrible claws. 
Tigerish eyes and a mouth like a viper's. A pause, 
And the voice of Dyke spoke : "You are welcome, 

my dear; 
But I claim, first, a kiss as a mark of good cheer 
Thro' this damnable place." As his claws the flesh tore 
From her shoulder, his lips, with foul breath, to her 

bore 
Such a kiss, — like a sting. She awakened and screamed. 
And exhausted then lay in a tremble, she deemed 
It so real ; and for days she was haunted, depressed 
By this incubus weighing like a sin in her breast. 
She grew haggard and wan, wished for Winthrop one 

hour 
With his courage and strength, and his good sense 

to tower 
As a bulwark around her ; the very next, fear 
He would scoff and despise with strong words that 

would sear. 
So, all of her letters limped along on a crutch. 
Saying less than she would, lest she might say too much. 



136 



LXVIII 

In a third story room on a South Boston Street, 
Where the tenements crowd 'till the lines of them meet, 
Where the people spend all, and their poverty feel 
In a district, in short, called the shabby genteel — 
In a low darkened room, sparsely furnished and mean, 
Mr. Dyke calmly sat facing angry John Dean. 

Mr. Dean 
"Dave, you must get to work, and the girl, too, you see ? 
You can't put the burden altogether on me. 
I do my share — always; and you know that — enough. 
Both of you'll have to hustle in moving the stuff." 

Mr. Dyke 
'We must wait yet awhile." 

Mr. Dean 
"See this coat? Will that wait? 
Why a tramp would be poor who affords not its mate." 

Mr. Dyke 
"Oh, your clothing's not bad. Money soon will be rife 
In our camp, when that girl becomes your servant's 

wife — 
'Twill be heaven and cash, and our ship will be in, 
For her father is rich." 

Mr. Dean 
"But it is not her tin." 



137 



Mr. Dyke 
"Yet you bet he'll come down when I catch hold his 

leg! 
From scandal of that sort an excuse he will beg." 

Mr. Dean 
"Well, go it! God speed you. God? 'Tis Devils that 

keep 
Watchful care o'er your life, if awake or asleep." 

Mr. Dyke 
"Well, whichever it is, things at last will come right, 
As they have in the past; and the sun will be bright 
By and by, tho' the present is shrouded in gloom." 

Mr. Dean 
"But, 'tis said that a wrong will at last meet its doom." 

Mr. Dyke 
"They are relative terms, right and wrong, as the stand 
From which you look at them ; either one will expand 
Without limit, if brought into favorable light. 
That a living is due every man as of right 
Can't be gainsaid, and each has his own way to get 
What is only his own. One in this spot may set 
Under motion his plans, the next there put his stakes, 
And each is entitled to whatever he makes." 

Mr. Dean 
"What in thunder, I'd like to inquire, do you want 
Of a woman as wife? She'll make trouble and haunt 

138 



You away from this trade." 

Mr. Dyke 

No ; she never will know 
What profitable seed we here secretly sow, 
Or her conscience might wake if it escaped my clasp." 

Mr. Dean 
"Is the game worth the risk. Do you think you can 

grasp 
Enough money to pay for the danger?" 

Mr. Dyke 

"If not, 
The whole thing long ago would have been sent to pot. 
And you know very well I can drop her the day — 
The next day should I choose. 'Tis an opera bouffe 

play. 
While the money is sure, still beyond that I hope 
A man will toboggan down the slide which I soap. 
There's a proud, measley wretch who in mere meanness 

hath 
Made attempts several times to put stones in my path, 
And I'll laugh when he squirms on the confines of hell, 
As he looks back to see by whose tripping he fell." 

LXIX 

A woman's perceptions are wonderfully quick 
When the trump is a heart and a marriage's the trick; 
139 



And Alice was second to no other in this 
Special faculty — these insights which never miss 
Fire, and true in their aim. So she knew that this man 
Would seek culmination of his audacious plan 
Before many days passed ; and would she still remain 
The same helpless being, with head ache and heart 

pain? 
Was it love of the dang'rous in this that led her 
To grope round for the black when the white she'd 

prefer? 
Had she lost self control? Could there be no appeal 
From the will of another to what she might feel 
Was her own proper way? And was she in a daze 
To be blindly led thro' a dark intricate maze 
To — to — where would it end? She was lost in the doubt 
Which encompassed her soul like a damp fog about. 
She then halted 'til Dyke, with his art in command, 
Came and knelt at her feet, pleading long for her hand, 
Spread the future before her a Paradise fair 
And they the two bless'd ones to be entertained there. 
'Twas all a dim glamor what she said — what she did. 
But she felt her strength come with her tears as she 

hid 
Her shamed head in her hands, and sobbed back she 

could not 
Hear him further, and said let it all be forgot, 
For he never — no, never, could any hope find. 
For himself, Mr. Dyke kept his presence of mind 
And his temper, and spoke a few words to assuage 
140 



The turmoil that appeared in the girl's brain to rage; 
Set his voice to low key, with pathetic regret 
That a passion so single as his should have met 
With reception so — well, so indifferent, at least ; 
Poor requitement for love which no moment had ceased 
In its growth since he first found it spring from the 

seed. 
Would she think it all over, and the uncommon need 
He was in to be saved, and she easily might 
By returning his love ; and he left with good night. 



LXX 

W^hen alone by herself, she was angry first, 

Then, excitement still high, she her writing desk burst. 

Drew her paper and pen, wrote, with spirit and dash — 

She scarcely knew what, but it bore more of the flash 

Of her own proper self, the recipient thought, 

Than any from her that to his home had been brought. 

And Alice strange freedom for a little while felt 

As if she had risen to a clarified belt 

Of pure air where she breathed with the ease as of old 

Before stifled by Dyke with his suave voice and cold 

Glittering words, and alone she could write as denied 

With her friend Geraldine sitting close by her side. 

As she always did sit when the other would write; 

But the girl from this burden had respite tonight. 



141 



LXXl 

"My Dear SeagRave: My love seems to take brighter 

phase 
As it springs out the dullness, the darkness and haze— 
The wretched environs into which I've been thrown. 
How it happened, don't ask ; the fault may be my own ; 
I don't say ; I don't know ; all my thoughts are in strife* 
But tonight Mr. Dyke asked if I'd be his wife — 
Mr. Dyke, your old friend, he at least claims the post, 
Tho dislike for him grows 'til it seems I'll be lost — 
In the spell that he weaves. Will you set your boat's 

prow 
To the northward at once? Will you come to me now? 
When I need you, aye, more than I did on the shore 
Of the Isle of the Blest, where your ample arms bore 
Me from waters of death; for of death I was not 
In the least bit afraid. But to think I've forgot 
For a moment your love, as I must if the man 
Plad excuse for his coming. I'm sure that I can 
Endure not, and I cry 'cross the earth and the sea 
For my lover from far to come soon unto me 
And resolve threatenings dark which now hover around 
To a sheltering care in which love shall abound. 
Geraldine — or Miss Snow — has this evening gone out 
With papa ; now on that you may surmise or doubt 
Till you are tired, and I could never help you a bit, 
For I can't make my mind up to what is in it. 
But I'm glad she's not here while I have this to write, 
142 



For she says many things which are witty and bright 
Which somehow I borrow, quite unconsciously, too. 
And reaHze later the folly. Do not you 
Abhor this confession, and the confessor more? 
But I further can't write ; I expect at the door 
Every moment to hear the night key in the latch 
By the tenants returned. I must hasten to catch 
The collection last made from the letter box near, 
And expect a good scolding when Miss Snow shall hear 
I write with her absent. I have written so fast 
It may be hard to read. Think! The die is now cast 
And may panoplied fortune and pleasure advance! 
Ever and ever your true love, 

Alice Sevrance." 

LXXII 

Seagrave needed no time to get ready to start ; 
At Punta Gorda his yacht in the care of Joe Smart, 
A rare boatman, he left, when he read the last line 
Of the letter which came ; the previously blind sign 
Which was scrolled on the walls of his house became 

plain 
And, sans all preparation, he'd take the first train, 
Replenish his wardrobe on occasion or chance, 
And he'd sharpen meanwhile the long blade of his lance 
For his enemy's head ; for the more he reviewed 
The letter he'd folded, he its import construed 
To be not in the lines which his Alice had writ, 
143 



But between them, and he guess'd she never would fit 

The effect to the cause, but was lost in the dark 

Of some villanous scheme which Dyke's kidney could 

hark 
To the onset against what was sacred and pure 
Without scruple. But Seagrave would go with a cure 
For ulcer of that sort. "I will never," he said, 
"Be content till Aliss Sevrance to safety is led, 
And a net for that rascal be woven. Perhaps — 
Geraldine — there is something about her which taps 
My suspicions. I have little ground for the thought, 
But momentous results have from smaller been 

wrought." 

LXXIII 

But he turned from the worry, his lesson was learned 
Long before to not borrow of troubles interned 
In the future, for surely they might be concealed 
So securely as never to light be revealed. 
However, if such should develop, why the need 
Would be served by nerve-force, husbanded for the 

deed. 
As he pass'd, he preferred to o'erlook the landscape ; 
On the state's growth to reflect, from low Sable Cape 
To the mouth of St, Johns, which a brief time had 

changed 
From interminable forests thro' which cattle ranged 
And a rare Cracker camp, to a settled estate 
144 



With its clearings and groves, happy people elate 

In their homes 'mid the flowers where the year blandly 

smiles 
In fruitage abundant, and all nature beguiles 
To a long life of pleasure; below an earth fair, 
And above a blue sky and a marvelous air. 
Towns and hamlets by scores struck his eyes as he 

roll'd 
Thro' the country, with schools, and the spires of 

Christ's fold. 
Hotels and court houses; a devout multitude 
Having plov/ed what so lately was wide solitude. 
Far away from old homes, but yet not feeling lost 
With their many railroads and their diurnal post. 
They Vt^ere people of brains, and invaders in peace 
Who came for contentment and to gain a new lease 
Of life and enjoyment in the sun amid flowers, 
Where zephyrs are soothing, and the redolent hours 
Waste away as in dreams when the fairies troop out 
In their garlanded robes to lead spirits about 
Under orders from Mab. Here they'd planted the vine, 
And beneath their own fig trees could sip of their wine 
Thro' the days when the sky was of soft glowing pearl 
Or at eve when the sun in the west would unfurl 
The bright variant banners, delighting the eye 
With the colors belonging alone to this sky ; 
And surrounded by groves of the lemon and orange 
Whose gloss'd leaves and gold fruit make a picture 

for range 

145 



Of man's gladdened vision ; the broad ananas fields, 
Bananas and giiavas, and a score more which yields 
Beyond an abundance. If all this had been done 
In a decade, he thought, 'twas a victory won 
Having parallel none, and the future outheld 
With a generous hand a cornucopia swell'd 
For the thousands by tens who should have happy 

homes 
In this land of the sun where the snow never comes. 
Where the foliage is soft and the blossoms are sweet, 
And Athena, blue-eyed, prolongs life from her seat 
On Olympian hill; and the hopes of the day 
Melt the dreams of the night in a blessing alway. 
This was better, he owned, than the solitude kept 
By himself on the isle which so peacefully slept 
In the translucent sea ; yet each man to his will. 
The intelligent folks who have come here to fill 
The broad land with a fruitage were building a state 
To be marked in years coming as prosperously great. 
Solitude they'd not bear as he did. They'd prefer 
To rub fellow elbows, to meet men in the stir 
Of advancement and strife and activities strong. 
So did he. But his trials he'd insist did belong 
To the domain of healing of body and soul; 
He'd been broken in both and was emerging whole. 
And who'll say, after all, what is noblest and best 
In mortals by millards who on earth have made quest. 
And for what? The beyond is a Magnalia, blind 
As is that whence the seed sprang to grow in its kind. 
146 



What law-laking Egoist to bind would assume 

The mind of another, quench ihe lights which illume 

The life, brief as an hour to a chiliad? None 

Have secrets exclusive from what life's web is spun. 

Are the many or few justified in a claim 

Of right over the one? Why, history must name 

One alone in the walk of progress who has led 

Earih, and the multitude nameless went with the dead. 

LXXIV 

Thus his mind v/as engaged. But the prosaic side 
And disquiet of Seagrave Winthrop's late summer ride, 
He found in confinement to the hot rumbling car, 
With the powdery dust from its pounding and jar. 
It bore on him, the change from the air clean and free 
And the silences deep of his isle in the sea; 
And the loud talk of men 'bout their catties and hogs 
Was to him the miasma afloat o'er the bogs 
Intellectual. Here, v/hen the summer months grow 
The train service dies down to a few cars and slow, 
But when once he had caught the fast northern mail 

train — 
A long distance runner with a speed to maintain — 
He felt as if going, he pass'd state after state, 
And on reaching New Jersey, he had counted eight. 
He stepp'd from the sleeper to the old ferry ark 
Which conveyed him the Hudson across to New 

York,— 
The great city whose noise and confusion and lights 
147 



Struck his ear like a Babel and revealed the sights 
Which astonished. "Ah, me, 'tis no wonder," he said 
"That half of the people never know the life led 
By the others." Between city life and the far 
Distant stillness of country, with little to mar 
Virtuous life, there's a gulf very deep, very wide, 
And if each has its dark, it has, too, its white side. 
Which is better? one asks. The discussion's as old 
As the building of towns. Every person can hold 
To the theory he likes ; but there is no dispute 
That the cities would die if they did not recruit 
From the vigorous blood of the country, the brawn 
And the strength, to be thrust in unpitying pawn 
For wild gain ; for the city's a mill that runs fast, 
Grinding up flesh and blood, with scarce aught at the 

last 
But scant grave for the bulk of its toil-driven slaves 
Who're sustained by a false stimulation which saves 
From remorse. Still, 'tis great in some ways, not the 

least 
In its contrasts extreme, from the millionaire's feast 
In his palatial home near the grand Central Park 
To starvation and filth where the alleys grow dark 
With dense population in their tumbledown shells 
And life is but suffering a succession of hells; 
From the nobles of wealth who administer true 
What is put in their keeping, to the accursed screw 
Who, like all the others, bids farewell to the earth 
As much of a pauper as he was at his birth, 
148 



For Charon never carried across his dark pool 
A stiver or sixpense — think of that, dying fool! 
From sealskin, silk and lace, and perfume of rare cost, 
To cheap calico gowns ; from my lady engross'd 
In society's whirl, to the sempstress who knows 
Day nor night from her drudgery the slightest repose; 
From churches uptown never entered by God 
Nor whose people have ever pass'd under the rod. 
To the widow who weeps in a damp corner dim 
With the angels around bringing comfort from Him. 
Then the question recurs, where does happiness rest? 
And whose name shall be first when Humanity's 

bless'd? 
Shall then Crassus be crowned? Shall the tramp be 

a king? 
Shall Magdalene's finger bear honorable ring? 
He pondered these problems with results rather scant — 
They well would have puzzled a Fichte, Heigel or 

Kant — 
As he rode in his cab; still unraveled the snarl 
When at last he got out at Hotel Albemarle. 

LXXV 

Without any delay, he a messenger sent 

For a long ago friend, Mr. Farrington Bent, 

Who came that same evening; tall, broad-shouldered 

and stout. 
With a masterful step, as if he'd pick a route 
149 



And pursue it regardless of what might it block, 
And in friendship or fight equally ready to lock, 
If his gray eyes spoke right. But his manners were 

mild 
And engaging, almost, like a precocious child. 
Shaking hands warmly, Seagrave proceeded to tell 
In a short, hurried way of his vacation spell 
Which had kept him away. From this, quickly he 

turned 
To the subject in hand — to the one thought that burned. 

Mr. Winthrop 
"Farrington, let me ask if you're still in the same 
Old profession engaged?" 

Mr. Bent 
"Yes, the same hunt for game, 
And, what's more to the purpose, I find it — sometimes." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"I want your assistance." 

Mr. Bent 
"Well — in my line of crimes?" 

Mr. Winthrop 
"I don't know. Perhaps not any crime has been done ; 
Proof is lacking. I'll tell you, and you can keep run 
Of the story. Your help for past friendship I ask, 
With a guarantee that you'll be paid for the task. 
If a wrong has been done you're the man who can find 

150 



The rascal who did it, and the snare weave to bind. 
There's a woman — 'tis said there is one in each case 
Where a man is concerned." 

Mr. Bent 
"Yes, of course; or the race 
Would from the earth perish." 

Mr. Winthrop 

"You're facetious, but I 
Am deadly in earnest." 

Mr. Bent 
"That's all right; and I cry- 
Back to you at this sport. But I'm bound to be heard 
Since it Adam commenced — Adam, villain absurd — 
'Tis the fashion for men to attribute their sin 
Or its cause, to a woman. There's nothing within 
Expression of language to characterize right 
These miserable sneaks who would get out of sight 
Behind feminine skirts. Why don't sometimes men 

raise 
Themselves up to Truth's plane, and their voice to the 

praise 
Of womanly virtues? If no better were she 
Than the average of men, I am afraid the decree 
Would be end of the world. I am tired of the lie 
That the women to men every evil supply." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"You have well said your say. I'll agree to agree 
151 



With your utterance strong. If you'd waited for me 
To in half dozen words end of my sentence reach, 
I'd have lost an essay, and you — well, saved your 

speech. 
There's a woman involved in the case I present, 
As lovely a creature as the Fates ever sent 
To accompany man on his journey mundane, 
Whom I've plighted my love, which she returns again 
With devotion as warm and as pure as the light." 

Mr. Bent 
"Ah, indeed ! Will you please name the beauty, a sight 
Of whom dazzles Seagrave? Before whom he would 
dance?" 

Mr. Winthrop 
"Don't extravagant grow. She Miss Alice Sevrance 
Of Boston." 

Mr. Bent 
"I would tender you joy, with the hope 
That the future will give you a pleasure whose scope 
Shall be limitless. But all you so far have told 
Does not reach to the pith of the subject." 

Mr. Winthrop 

"A bold 
Raucous rascal comes next, whom I'm compelled to 

place, 
From what little I've read of this fad folks embrance 
As a hypnotic fiend. I could vanish his spell 
O'er the girl, if a spell he has woven. But 'twere well 
152 



In my mind to look out if he's not bigger game — 
If some prison wants not on its roll this same name. 
That chap I am after. Late last Spring he was south 
On the Caloosahatchie — at Myers, near its mouth, 
And a while afterwards there were found in the town 
A score counterfeit bills, which had been scatter'd 

round. 
The proof really is slight that he left the notes there — 
I'm obliged to admit for with you I'll be fair — 
But one dealer was sure that Dyke gave him this bill 
On the National Bank of the Upper Minkskill." 

Mr. Bent 
"What, this bill? Why, Seagrave, if you've put me on 

track 
Of the gang which makes these, your acquaintance will 

lack 
Not a journey to jail, for to you it is due 
To deliver to me the first valuable clue 
In a case which confounded the force. But his name?" 

Mr. Winthrop 
"It is Dyke." 

Mr. Bent 
"To me strange. But it may be the same 
Is assumed." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"No indeed; but he may have a score 
Besides this, which is right." 
153 



Mr. Bent 

"I have followed for more 
Than a year — nearly two, I should say — on the trail 
Of this bill, working hard, and doomed ever to fail." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"That is queer, for this Dyke was too stupid to scold 
When at school, he as dull as Abderean of old; 
But a natural thief, he his lessons would steal 
And, exposed, was dismissed without any appeal." 

Mr. Bent 
"They're the kind who evade the detective's pursuit 
The longest." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"Why is that?" 

Mr. Bent 

"I don't know; they do it 
As though ignorance were shield, but when they're 

at last found, 
The detective, because he has not run to ground 
Such a dullard before, is provoked at himself. 
But I hope I've a point to land Dyke and his pelf. 
It is now ten o'clock. In an hour I will start 
For Boston. Will you go?" 

Mr. Winthrop 

"I think not. Any part 
I might play over there would suspicion awake 
And defeat the measures you may prefer to take. 
154 



I will write on this card names and numbers to aid 
you to start. If I can be of help when you've made 
A survey of the field, send a message by wire. 
At this house I remain." 

Mr. Bent 
I your calmness admire. 
Good or bad, I'll report. But I hope it will show 
Something else than defeat. Time is passing, I go." 

LXXVI 

O Justice, heaven-born, works salvation at last. 
And it signifies not if the unjust have pass'd 
Tens or hundreds of turns where the law lies in wait. 
It is finally met, whether early or late. 
Whether God's law or man's, it its vengeance complete 
Will measure to culprit, and know never defeat. 
And tho' sometimes man's law one a failure may deem 
For awhile, 'tis not freedom, for God's law supreme 
Will admit no escape. But it generally haps 
That the artfullest sinner will somewhere make lapse — 
The Fates, after long guiding thro' criminal maze. 
Will finally desert their poor victim, and gaze 
From their vantage on him when involved in the toils 
Which he wove for himself, and they smile as the coils 
Draw tighter around him. Mr. Dyke had arranged 
For action for certain on a Wednesday, but changed 
It to Saturday. Why? He did this surely not 
155 



To permit Mr. Bent to arrive on the spot. 
For Bent did not arrive, he, at least, was not seen. 
He argued with wisdom that belonged to the dean 
Of the detective branch of the government force 
That tho' not knowing Dyke, Mr. Dyke might, of 

course. 
Be on him, so he took two good men who were strange 
To the East, and gave them charge of finding the range 
Of his game. And of these, one, O'Neil, the first day 
Saw Dyke go to the Beacon Street house, go away 
Shortly after, and tracked him thro' rushing and roar 
'Til he entered the South Boston tenement door. 
Then a second beheld ; in ten minutes a third ; 
And this latter he knew — was nicknamed the Fly Bird — 
From a picture which hung in the gallery of thieves. 
Then he saw softly turned on the third floor the leaves 
Of a blind, and felt sure he was on the right scent 
Of the quarry, and left to make report to Bent. 



LXXVIl 

Events moved for the Sleuth, for O'Neil the next day 
Followed one of the men o'er a tortuous way 
To Charlestown — a house where the shutters were dark. 
"That's the place," uttered Bent, "whence our friends 

will embark 
When we call," after he had considered the facts. 
"They are foxy; their pals even know not the tracks 
156 



To that house over there, where we'll find that they 

turn 
Out their work ; in the other, and without concern, 
They live safely, and meet whom they will ; after this 
I will be over there. You, O'Neil, never miss 
An hour's watch in the day ; get a room on the street 
Where a view you can have. When a rag or a sheet 
From a window is hung, or a pistol shot sounds. 
To the rescue then come. We must keep within bounds 
And exercise patience ; perhaps days — perhaps weeks — 
We must circumspect be. Give South Boston to Leeks ; 
He to you will report and speak never to me. 
You in this room alone must ever I see. 

LXXVIII 

That same night, Mr. Bent, when the silence hung deep 
Over Charlestown, and tired people all were asleep, 
Made his way up. the steps and, selecting a key 
Which threw back the bolt, he entered softly, as free 
As an owner in fee; passed thro room after room 
With the rays of a bull's-eye dispelling the gloom, 
And found — in the basement — what he deemed he would 

find. 
And was satisfied quite, at least in his own mind. 
At the progress to date. In the front second floor 
He found, upon opening with his false keys the door, 
A room dark in its dust, which was surely not used, 
And he laid down and slept, where he was not refused 
157 



The sweet, easy slumber his own bed would afford. 
After rising, and lunch, he, with sharp augur bored 
An inch hole in the floor and the ceiling below ; 
Then sat down by the window to wait for hours slow 
To roll by. Thro the blinds' narrow slits, he could view 
What was passing beneath. There were only a few 
People seen on the street, but the watcher ne'er showed 
Disappointmnt or hope, nor appeared tho he owed 
Aught to time, or against time had debt. If his mind 
Was kept busy, as 'twas, one no flushings could find 
Of his thoughts in his eye — every muscle was tame. 
But at last his face lit, as two men briskly came 
To the door, entered softly, went promptly down stairs, 
Where at work they began, entirely unaAvares 
That their movements were followed by eyes full as 

keen 
As their own, for an hour ; and then Bent having seen 
What he wished for, withdrew, and retired to his room. 
Threw himself on the pallet and slept till the gloom 
Of the evening allowed him to make his retreat, 
And his faithful lieutenant in conference meet. 
They agreed on one thing — any time they might choose 
They could tighten the lines, but as yet they would lose 
The bell wether. They'd wait yet awhile, but alert 
To the needs any hour might them call to exert. 

LXXIX 

But ihis case, for a wonder, moved along, didn't stretch 
158 



Nerves or patience. Next day they saw Dyke come 

and fetch 
Ladies two. "Now," said Bent to himself, "I shall hear 
If not see," and he sprawled on the floor with his ear 
To the hole he had bored, and was gladdened again 
To discover that sounds from below came up plain. 

Miss Sevrance 
"Where are we? What this place? Geraldine,do not 

leave 
Me alone with this man. Why, I did not conceive 
That you'd help to deceive me, for where are your 

friends 
Whom you said we should meet?' 

Miss Snow 

"You are aware of the ends 
Which we seek." 

Mr. Dyke 
"There! No more in that strain; now go out 
And your important errand please hasten about, 
While I to Miss Sevrance can the better explain." 

Miss Sevrance 
"What! You're locking the door?" 

Mr. Dyke 
"Yes, so we can remain 
Undisturbed a few moments." 
159 



Miss Sevrance 

"What, what does this mean, 
Mr. Dyke?" 

Mr. Dyke 
*'Pray be calm. Here, unheard and unseen, 
I again press my suit; at your feet humbly kneel 
And implore you to give me an answer." 

Miss Sevrance 

"You deal 
In soft words and harsh acts. You your answer shall 

take. 
No ! Never ! A thousand times No !" 

Mr. Dyke 

"Please awake 
To the fact that you're prisoner here, and your heart 
You must yield — or your hand — ere you ever depart, 
And I'm sure you'll prefer any trouble to save." 

Miss Sevrance 
"Back! Back! Come not near me. Would you kiss 
me, vile knave?" 

Mr. Dyke 
"Have a ciare of your words, my sweet one, or you'll 

find 
That I can be somewhat, — when provoked, — say, 
unkind," 

i6o 



Miss Sevrance 
"Oh, why did I know you? Mr. Winthrop was right. 
You're a wretch," 

Mr. Dyke 
"Ha, ha! Winthrop, indeed! why this fight 
Is against that same man, who aloof held himself 
From those better than he — got, as 'twere, on the shelf 
Of his pride, and the top one at that. Will he laugh 
In his joy at the news that you're my better-half?" 

Miss Sevrance 
"Oh, never! God protect." 

Mr, Dyke 
"I would not contradict; 
For I think you mean yes. Miss Sevrance, this conflict 
Of tongues shall have ending; we're to be married soon, 
When returns Geraldine — 'twas to be just at noon." 

Miss Sevrance 
"I would die first." 

Mr. Dyke 
"Ah, Death does not come at our call. 
It is when we don't want him he throws somber pall 
O'er our heads. But you see, do you not, worse than 

death 
Looks you full in the face, for suspicion's low breath 
Is as bad as the truth when the truth is the worst; 
By your own guilt undone, you are already cursed, 
For an hour we have been in this room all alone — 
Don't you see what I mean?" 
i6i 



Miss Sevrance 

"O my God! Am I stone? 
Yes ; I see and I feel. It has been, knave, your aim 
To put this upon me, and to blacken my name 
Oh, death I would welcome ; yes, a thoustand times yes, 
Than to live and as woman be any the less. 
As united to you I would be. Why, I scorn 
The thought. Did I slumber ; was it of the dark born 
That this rottenness here once a cade goodness 

gleamed — 
Was with manhood endowed?" 

Mr. Dyke 

"I declare, if you dreamed, 
You're awake to the honor approaching." 

Miss Sevrance 

"You think, 
It may be, it is noble to here on the brink 
Of a prec'pice to set me. Perhaps you have power 
To my body impale, but the soul seeks its dower 
Far beyond and above. Think you answer'll not make 
To the vengeance of Him who will never forsake, 
As I firmly believe, such vile criminal's trail." 

Mr. Dyke 
"There, stop ! I insist. Think you words will avail 
To change my decision, when I've gone to this length?" 

Miss Sevrance 

"O father ! O Winthrop ! O my God, give me strength 

162 



In an hour of such need!'* 

Mr. Dyke 
"Ohj now dry up those tears, 
Or your eyes will be spoiled. Here Miss Snow 

reappears, 
For I hear carriage wheels ; 'twill be over soon now, 
And wisdom it is to the inevitable bow." 

LXXX 

Mr. Bent at the blind slipped his handkerchief thro' 
And walked noiselessly down and the front door bolt 

drew 
And admitted O'Neil. Neither uttered a word 
As they stood for a moment and low voices heard 
In the parlor; then both threw their weight 'gainst 

the door 
Which went in with a crash that astonished the four. 
*'Hell, 'tis Bent !" exclaimed Dyke, and he made a wild 

dash 
As escape he Vv^ould make. The big man like a flash 
Was upon him, however, with grip of a vise 
In which he was a child, and as ribbons of ice 
The irons circled his wrists. But the second man 

fought 
In a desperate way, until finally brought 
To a Quakerish mood by a harsh temple blow 
From O'Xeil, just in time to return to Miss Snow, 
Intercepting her exit. 

163 



Mr. Bent 

"No, madam, you must 
Remain with your people for awhile. I can't trust 
You away from my sight." 

Miss Snow 

"You're impertinent, sir ; 
Let me pass." 

Mr. Bent 
"I cannot. 'Twill be dangerous to stir." 

Miss Snow 
"What invasion is this? I don't know what it means." 

Mr. Bent 
" 'Twould take time to explain." 

Miss Snow 
"If there's cause for the scenes 
You have made with these men, you have not the least 

cause 
To give me detention." 

Mr. Bent 

"It accords with the laws 
We make for our guidance; and this beautiful pair 
Of silver steel bracelets I shall ask you to wear." 

Miss Snow 
"Oh horrors ! Arrested ! You're mistaken, and do 
You, oh, you vile creature, believe I'll yield to you?" 
164 



Mr. Bent 
"I dare say. There's the proof ; they fit snugly. O'Neil 
Will you step down in front while I hold these folks 

leal 
With revolver, and tell that Jehu not to wait; 
That our plans have been changed; you will return at 

eight." 

Mr. Miller 
"Will you be kind enough now to say why I'm detained, 
This indignity thrust upon me, the cloth stained 
By these desperate acts?" 

Mr. Bent 

"Oh, you innocent man? 
It is my place to get what information I can, 
But I have none to give." 

Mr. Miller 
" 'Til you're called on to answer 
For imprisonment false." 

Mr. Bent 
"You will soon need a fan, sir, 
If with folly you heat. Name your church. — Oh, your 

tongue 
Has no lie ready-made for a question thus sprung?" 

LXXXI 

When O'Neil had come back to his chief's side, then 
both 

165 



Of the men, and in spite of resistance and oath, 
Were searched thro with dispatch, and made sure they 

were fast 
Each in separate room ; after which Bent, at last, 
Gave notice to Alice, who had set as one struck 
With a dumbness thro'out the brief struggle, her pluck 
Dissipated, her cheeks being ashen, her eyes 
Lifeless, evincing neither fear, hope, nor surprise, 
Nor in the drama going on the least interest. 
Had she come in few weeks from the golden-tinged 

crest 
Of high hopes to this trough of despond? Aye, and 

worse, 
To, still blameless of that, be put under the curse 
Which would follow henceforth every move which she 

made 
Until dust came to dust and her body was laid 
In enwrappings of clay ; and for him who had brought 
Her to look upon life as mosaic inwrought 
With such beautiful gems — would she dare with this 

stain 
On her garments, assume to look ever again 
In his eyes, or allow her ears open to hear 
His reproaches? Indeed, could she ever appear 
Unto him, or the world, or herself, as she did 
To within briefest time? And her father — she hid — 
Her first movement— her face, as she felt the dull ache 
Of an overtired heart. Blessed love does not make 



i66 



Second place for a parent, tho' a new flower should 

grow 
More sublime by its side and its blossoms should show 
Brighter colors, new forms, yielding perfume which 

seals 
The eyes and the senses to all save sweet ideals. 
But more, the affection which had grown thro the years 
Between father and daughter had — and had caused 

her tears — 
Seemed to wane on his part under Geraldine's reign 
As a queen for the realm which she labored to gain. 

LXXXII 

With her thoughts at this stage, Mr. Bent seemed to 

find 
Time to give her attention; in words firm and kind. 
And so loud that Miss Snow could not help hearing all. 

Mr. Bent 
"Miss Sevrance, permit me, if I may, to recall 
From the dark, cloudy realm where occasion has 

thrown 
You without any thought or of effort your own; 
You are safe where you feared, for a witness has heard 
Since you came to the house every syllabled word, 
And besides, what will gladden your mind in this hour 
When the elements strive and the night shadows lower, 
Is the news that I give you that Winthrop is near, 
167 



That the message is gone which will bring him soon 

here, 
For he waited without, as it were on the skirt 
Of this dramatic scene, lest his presence should hurt 
Our plans for the capture of the people entrapped 
With such ease in this place, and few more will be 

wrapped 
In the arms of O'Neil, my assistant, who's gone 
To South Boston to see if a prize may be drawn 
That will match one we've got herein under our thumb. 
I regret very much that I cannot give some 
Relief sooner to you, but precaution must use 
Against any escape to the street of the news 
Of this event, lest those whom we're after elsewhere 
Should get wind and evade us ; the chase has been rare, 
And I cannot afford any change of the plan." 

Miss Sevrance 
"Can't I send to father?" 

Mr. Bent 

"No; O'Neil, sooner than 
Any message, will reach him." 

Miss Snow 

"I ask you again 
If enabled you are this affair to explain? 
Why is it I'm subject to this outrage, abuse, 
And the gentlemen, too? Have you any excuse 
To offer?" 

l68 



Mr. Bent 
"Not the least, madam — here. Proper time 
Will arrive, say tomorrow, when the alleged crime 
Shall be inquired into." 

Miss Snow 

"Crime?" 
Mr. Bent 

"I beg you don't start." 
Miss Snow 
"Crime? Crime? Do I hear right?" 

Mr. Bent 

"Yes." 
Miss Snow 
"You think you are smart." 

Mr. Bent 
"No; but rather I thought in the months on this case 
I was frightfully dull, and the outrageous race 
You have run me, I'm sure to your credit shall stand 
When I gather together this numerous band- 
Will you tell me how many there are? — You are still. 
That is proper enough. What you say, of course, will 
Be all used against you. Eight ! O'Neil should be back. 
Ah, is that he, I wonder? It sounds like a hack." 

Mr. O'Neil 
"I am here on the dot. We have ne'er had a case 
Where the threads interwove like the bars of fine 
lace 

169 



As they have in this one. We got three men down 

there 
And the other was found in his office. I dare 
Say they're safe by this time. Shall we move now 

with these?" 

Mr. Bent 
"Yes, Miss Snow, you will go with O'Neil, if you 

please." 

LXXXIII 

Miss Sevrance was home, if it so could be called 
With her father away. Its deep stillness appalled 
As from one room to other she unconsoled went 
In the wildest unrest, while forebodings found vent 
In the mutterings which fell from her delicate lip, 
Blanched and ashen; her eyes red, half hid by the dip 
Of lids swollen by tears, and her fingers entwined 
As if praying defense from a fear half divined. 
vSince her mem'ry first ran they were never apart 
For a whole day before this, and all that the heart 
Of a child toward a parent, or of his unto her 
Could be, had existed. Why this break should occur 
At the end of a day of such trouble and shame 
Perplex'd her and sorrowed, turned impotent and lame 
Her logic and reason ; made more poignant her grief ; 
For this night of all nights, she'd have felt the relief 
Of his warm sympathy which was ready to break 
Forth for her if she had disappointment or ache. 
170 



And this moment she sorrowed as never before, 
With no hand to press hers, with no kind tongue to pour 
Feeling words as a balm to her heart, there to heal 
The cruel rents which were made by the poisonous 
steel. 

LXXXIV 

Was she weak? Both in Dyke and Miss Snow she'd 

believed, 
In the latter the more, and the more been deceived. 
If indeed it were not, the whole thing, a mistake. 
Was it real or a dream? Was she surely awake? 
Did she live? For she seemed to be somewhere in space 
With menacing demons, without friend or friend's face 
To give smile reassuring and banish the curse 
Which hung dismally 'round, and from bad went to 

worse 
As her fevered brain played with the gruesome details 
Of the sad day's events. And — so with woman prevails 
The perverse route of thought — Winthrop's name at 

the end 
Of all others followed, with scant promise to mend 
Her distraction. How could he approach if he heard — 
And could he miss knowing — what of late had occurred? 
In her mind's eye she saw back of all Seagrave stood 
With his glance bent on her in a pitying mood, 
But vindictive toward Dyke, and her sympathy flowed 
From the strong to the weak. If he mere pity showed, 
171 



She stood not in its need. So she thought, but she did 
Need it more than she deemed. She knew not what 

was hid 
In the hours passing fast to give her further trial, 
Nor what comfort the strength of that one from the isle 
In the South could afford her ; how his tender eyes 
Could console and his tongue could outstraighten the 

lies 
Which had woven her round with an intricate mesh, 
And in excellent phrase give escape from the lesh. 

LXXXV 

So, exhausted, she threw herself down on the bed. 
Not to sleep, but to pass the time hanging like lead. 
And if slumber did come, earth was never quite lost, 
For there stalked thro her brain a multinomial ghost. 
'Twas her father's form first, but he kept his head 

turned, 
Tho she begged for one glance, he made gesture which 

spurned 
Her; she fell back in tears. Behold, then 'twas 

Seagrave 
And his very voice, too, saying: "After a knave 
And succeeded by one;" he then bade her allow 
Him as token of love to touch lips to her brow. 
'Twas transformed into Dyke, but his eyes had turned 

green, 
And rough, parchment-like ridges of skin rose between; 
172 



His lips moved; he would speak; but an unmeasured 

arm 
Reached from space and hurled him, ere he lifted alarm 
Far away. But the form was still there — Geraldine, 
Who contemptuously gazed on the ruinous scene, 
And, with toss of her head, said : "Five minutes grace, 
You'd have journeyed down there in the devil's 

embrace." 



LXXXVI 

With this phantom and that, horrid night wore along 
As she toss'd to and fro, and the fever grew strong 
In her veins, till at last the faint light of the morn 
Showed without, and she slept thro an hour or so torn 
From the fateful day's dole; and she finally awoke 
To the voice of her servant who precipitately broke. 
Crying, into the room, "Oh, Miss Alice, O woe 1 
What has happened? Three men, big and strong, are 

below 
Who proclaim they have come to make search of the 

place. 
And there's one man with whiskers and sun-colored 

face 
Who would see you at once, and said he could not wait. 
What's his name? Well, I think 'twas Wind some- 
thing — Windgate." 
"Mercy! Mr. Winthrop ! Can I go, such a fright? 
173 



Why, I've scarce slept a wink thro' this demon-filled 
night." 

LXXXVII 

With misgivings she went down the Stairs, Step by step, 

Very doubtful how much of herself she had kept 

For this man of all men — was he not? She had thought 

So at no distant time. But now had he not brought 

This catstrophe on, and should she forgive 

Even him — him for whom it was once life to live? 

So, still hesitating, she, the portiere drew 

And with defiant air went with quickened step thro. 

Mr. Winthrop 
"Oh, Alice, my loved one, what a trial this has been 
For a woman who has ever been wrapped within 
The soft shelter afforded to you heretofore; 
But I came with all speed — should have been here 

before — 
When the telegraph brought word I'd not break Bent's 

plan, 
And you now must divide just so far as you can 
All the trouble surrounding you, of which you know 
Not the greater as yet, I'm afraid; for 'twill grow 
As the day does, and yet if you'll meet it full face 
There's deliverance to weigh— something gained you 

may place 
Against sorrow. Alice! Why so still stand you there? 
174 



Have you nothing, my love, for me save that cold 
stare?" 

Miss Sevrance 
"Mr. Winthrop, be seated, I'm tired, and can't stand 
Any longer. Perhaps you'll explain why this band 
Of armed men have come here unannounced to invade 
Private houses by force and audacious parade — 
Without reason or sense to arrest Mr. Dyke 
And Miss Snow — such insults, they at my feelings 
strike." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"I know nothing but what every reader may know ; 
For the papers today several columns bestow, 
With black letter titles, on the momentous event, 
Save this isolate fact that I knew Mr. Bent 
Left New York with suspicion that Dyke was engaged 
In this crime — that is all." 

Miss Sevrance 
"And what's that? Have they waged 
Persecution on men, and on women, because 
They merely suspect them of violating laws?" 



'O Alice!' 



Mr. Winthrop 

Miss Sevrance 
Miss Sevrance, if you please," 

Mr. Winthrop 

"Miss Sevrance, 
175 



"I am here, having come at your call a distance -'* 

Miss Sevrance 
"Rut too late." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"Say not that. You are tired, I'm aware, 
From a day of much trouble and unusual care. 
I will not detain you ; but let me say again 
That my hand has not been in this business ; no stain 
Would, however, adhere if I had. I'd been proud 
Had I helped in detecting the villainous crowd — 
Such they are if one-half of the report is true. 
There's that Dyke — I told Bent what about him I 

knew — 
And him only I know, and he never a friend. 
He lied simply to you about that for some end. 
We're acquainted, 'tis true, because we met in school, 
From which he was expelled as a robber and fool. 
There are five other men, and one woman — Miss 

Snow — 
The charge counterfeiting; this, at least, you should 

know, 
And I tell it therefore. The proof seems to be sure." 

Miss Sevrance 
"It is strange Mr. Bent should so freely use your 
Name connected with this, and still stranger you should 
Have deaf ear for my call, but respond when he would 
Send a message." 

176 



Mr. Winthrop 
" 'Tis naught but I can make plain 
In few minutes, but shall for the present refrain. 
You should trust me for that." 

Miss Sevrance 
"But suppose I should not?" 

Mr. Winthrop 
"I refuse to consider that, here on the spot, 
When you're scarcely yourself, where so much has 

gone wrong, 
And perhaps it were best to this scene not prolong. 
1 would beg you to rest, and to also prepare 
To hear that your father is mixed in this affair 
In some manner; I hope he is not compromised. 
I'll be pleased to respond any time when advised 
I can render you help; and a messenger from 
You will find me at Room Fifty-two, the Vendome." 

.XXXVIII 

He no sooner had gone that she wished he had staid; 
And too late realized the injustice displayed 
In the words she had used, in the sentiment hid 
For the nonce in her heart — in her heart? God forbid; 
But the rather she felt in her unbalanced brain. 
And she flew to the door, called again and again : 
"O my lover, come back! O my Seagrave, return! 
1 meant not what I said, and the utterances burn 
177 



As a fire in my throat; and you're right, ever right, 
And that other is wrong — an offense in my sight ; 
To my eyes, to my reason — repulsive thing; 
And I offered defense — ah, me, that is the sting. 
Seagrave gone? Did he go at my unfeeHng taunt, 
And will never he come howe'er much I may want 
His protection and care? O my lover, Seagrave, 
O forgive the unkind, the cruel blow which I gave !" 
But she cried to the air, and no answer was heard, 
Save the anguish that deep in her consciousness stirred. 
And she wrung her pale hands in an agony sore, 
'Til her rings cut the flesh and its blood markings bore 
Direful proof of distress. She the hurt did not feel, 
Nor observe the red drops from her wan fingers steal. 
She collapsed on the couch, senses dead, nerves awake, 
And hysterically cried as tho' her heart would break; 
And between sobs she gasped : "O how bitter the fate 1 
O my loved one, come back! Do I call thee too late? 
O what sin in my life that prayer-offerings refuse? 
And what inpetto pain thus as torment pursues?" 

LXXXIX 

Mr. Winthrop went off with his heart none the less 
Charged with love for Miss Sevrance ; he knew her 

distress 
And its cure, he believed ; 'twas to be at her side 
Very little, or pity. She rather would ride 
Out the tempest alone. But he sent twice a day 
178 



An inquiry polite, a new book or bouquet 

Of the rarest rich flowers which he knew she admired. 

And he had his reward ; ere the week had expired 

He received at his room a diminutive note 

That was slightly perfumed with sweet heliotrope, 

A perfume he had come to regard as a part 

Of herself. She was one of the few who have art 

To select and adhere to an incense which reeks 

With the subtlest charm and a soul-language speaks. 

The note said if his breast a forgiveness held 

For her ungentle words, which it seemed had expelled 

Her from claim to depend on his kindness or aid, 

She'd be pleased to see him when his willingness made 

It convenient to call. She had something to say 

Which should claim his attention with little delay. 



xc 



He had carefully kept the case under review, 
Minutely perusing every day what was new. 
The few facts as brought out, and the reporters' hints — 
And surmises outnumber the facts in our prints, 
For much padding is put into our dailies too large ; — 
Was aware, too, that Bent had, to uphold the charge 
Proof enough, and kept back for the trial even more, 
And was satisfied, when the first hearing was o'er 
That the prisoners were held. If reporters had known 
All the facts, Winlhrop knew that they would wider 
have strown 

179 



Their wide areas of type — that three plates had been 

found 
Locked in Sevrance's safe; at his home, underground 
In the darker back cellar two more were upturned; 
That Miss Snow, undismayed, saucy, cold, unconcerned, 
'Til they ripped up her skirts, when like tigress she flew 
In a passion and fought with a fierceness that fev/. 
Few women could equal — she had reason enough. 
For her garments were lined with the villainous stufif. 
As good luck for once happened, each man had been 

pinched 
With some on his person, and Bent knew the case 

cinched 
In every direction; besides, one sought to feel 
For immunity due for the treacherous squeal. 
Telling Bent that he knew every thread running thro 
From beginning the web, both the old and the new. 
Later on when the case celebra came to trial 
Mr. Bent disregarded this confessor vile. 
And they all went to prison with very short shift, 
Save he who for himself in the clouds made a rift 
With a suicide's hand, — a confession to save 
The expense of convicting one single less knave. 



XCI 



The holder of knowledge which he wished was much 

less. 
Lest it prove an embarrassment in his address 
i8o 



To Miss Sevrance, he hastened without any wait 
To the Beacon Street house, but he felt his mind grate 
With surmisings how she would receive him; if she 
Yet was angry where she ought from anger be free, 
As she should be, and must, if the truth were all 

known. 
And the poison had died from her pathway where sown 
By that fiend of all fiends. For the woman, his love 
Rose to sublimest heights, reaching far and above 
Everything on earth, and a pity profound 
For the distresses which for the time wove around 
Their entangling web, filled his heart and gave pain. 
But he kept it concealed, and concealed to remain. 
Save freed by occasion, for she was, he believed, 
A woman whose anguish could be never relieved 
By mere pitying words, 'til her reason had sought 
For the truth, and for that she foundation had wrought 
Whereon safely to stand. He expected a change, 
That she'd come to her senses, and measured the range 
Of the charges which had been persistently press'd 
Against all of the persons who were in arrest, 
And considered them probably both pro and con. 
What conclusion she might have arrived at thereon 
Was another thing quite — that he did not much care. 
But his own position had been looked at more fair, 
Or she never had sent him that modest request, 
Whioh behind the mere words held the swell of her 

breast 
To the old tender love which was born on his isle 
i8i 



In the soft-tempered breeze and the sea's sunny smile, 
When all trouble and care seemed removed full as far 
As the glowing Centauri or the distant dog star. 

XCII 

He had prepared for change, and he found change, 

Indeed; 
A calm pallor had sprung from the sorrowful seed 
Which made her look older but, if possible, raised 
Her rare beauty so much that the angel was phased 
In her face, and her eyes had a newer, deep light, 
As if heavenly brightness had illumined the night. 
And she smiled, how'er faintly, as she crossed the floor 
With the rustle of silk as Seagrave passed the door. 
Holding out both her hands, and with uplifted face 
Where he could not resist, if he would, to implace 
A kiss duly sedate, but with rapturousness warm, 
And its sweetness he felt as of shine after storm. 

XCHI 

Then she gently withdrew from his clasp, and retired 
To her blue velvet chair, and the smile he admired 
Died away from her face, but it left even more 
Of the angel thereon than had shown there before. 

Miss Sevrance 
"You received, then, my note. I'm so glad that you 
came." 

182 



Mr. Winthrop 

"Did you think I would not?" 

Miss Sevrance 

"Why, perhaps." 
Mr. Winthrop 

"And your name 
Alice Sevrance, and mine Seagrave?" 

Miss Sevrance 

"So; it is that 
I would speak of. You know? For your simile's pat." 

Mr. Winthrop 
"'Tis a riddle you give." 

Miss Sevrance 

"Much the harder to guess 
Was I. myself; no, not my own self, I'll confess. 
The last time you were here I was dazed, and it seemed 
I was under the will of another, and deemed 
I must do as I did, tho I perfectly knew 
To my chagrin 'twas wrong— a nightmare reaching thro 
Day and night with its foulness, and the more I strove 
To get free from the bond it appeared stronger wove 
Weakly helpless, I used not the words which I would 
But those which the demon there directed I should. . 
'Twas like being borne down in a turbulent tide 
Wholly powerless to reach the banks smiling and wide ; 
Twas like walking in gloom of a hell-darkened day 
With a longing for heaven just over the way; 
183 



'Twas a suffering deep of an anguish untold 
With a sight of relief of which one might take hold, 
And yet hung to the grief, to the suff'ring and pain 
Because lacking in strength to dissever the chain. 
On, however, that day — the hour when that man fell, 
There seemed to come sunshine and it ruptured the 

spell; 
And 1 once more rejoiced in a freedom of thought, 
As refreshing a change as e'er miracle wrought. 
And with horror look back, and astonishment, too. 
On how little corruption can one's strength subdue." 

Mr, Winthrop 
" 'Tis a marvelous tale ; and your misery must 
Have been dreadful from fang of that viperous thrust. 
When I hit him at Myers for his causeless insult 
I might harder have struck and with better result — 
Might have killed him, in short ; but I never could crave 
The contemptible blood on my hands of that knave. 
A reciprocal stroke of good fortune shone out 
Of the darkness when Bent placed himself on the route. 
My blood chills when I think of you wound in the coils 
Of a serpent like that. And now, free from those toils, 
Let us take happy theme, and that dark one forget." 

Miss Sevrance 
"But I have something else still more marvelous yet; — 
You'll please read this letter; you will see that I am 
Not, nor was, what you thought, what I thought; but 
a sham 

184 



Of the Alice 3^011 v/ooed in your far away land; 
And we'll bury the past in its grave, and the hand 
Which I gave you take back; for I never could hold 
An engagement where dross goes as tender for gold." 

XCIV 

She coucluded; her voice was resonant but low, 
With a pathos perhaps indicated. And so. 
Without making reply, he approached her and took 
The envelope she held in her fingers, which shook, 
And the tears started forth from her beautiful eyes, 
Which she checked with new strength not the less a 

surprise 
To herself than to him. What was this that she meant. 
He made mental question, as he over her bent 
With a look that spoke volumes of love to the maid, 
And an assuring kiss on her hot brow allayed 
The turmoil of her mind, and one arm he had thrown 
'Round her waist, and stood there as if claiming his 

own. 
And she thrilled from the fire of his hand grasping 

hers. 

Mr. Winthrop 
"Shall I meeX your request? If this paper avers 
Aught unpleasant, perhaps I would better not read, 
But give it to the flames as outside of our need. 
For I cannot conceive of a cause 'neath the sky 
Why this should not be still an insecable tie. 
185 



I am sure I would rather from life have release 
Than give you up, my love." 

Miss Sevrance 
"But you must read it, please." 

xcv 



Perplex'd for the moment, he first paced up and down 
On the carpet, and counted the spots, blue and brown 
Which he cross'd. He did not make attempt to surmise 
What secrets were coming, whether truths or bald lies. 
And new troubles for them. The mind, somehow, 

refused 
To consider the thing. On the contrary, he mused 
On the day he first saw Alice Sevrance and saved 
Her from tempest and wave which so furiously raved; 
How he gathered her up in his arms, with her cheek 
Pressing closely to his ; how his heart went to seek 
In the succeeding days for his love a return, 
And the happy reward. Ah, that white flame would 

burn 
Unquenchable. Arriving at that point, he again 
Took his seat with a sigh as a natural refrain 
To his thoughts; glanced once more at Miss Sevrance, 

and fed 
On her beauty. Then turned to the letter and read: 



i86 



XCVI 

{From Mr. Scvrance to Alice) 

"My dear Alice: — I've something to say, and don'f 

know 
How to say it, or how to begin, save I go 
Far av/ay thro the years, when as boy I was bad 
As I possibly could be, and thus always had 
Of rascality more than I well could attend, 
And the end of it was as is always the end 
Of a criminal course, soon or late, I was sent 
With another to jail, where at labor I spent 
Five unpromising years. Tho surrounded by crime, 
I saw clearer than ever, and for the first time 
In my life, drew a line between evil and good. 
And believed good the best and resolved when I should 
Recover my freedom, I would walk in the path 
Of honor. I it kept for a time, tho' it hath 
Overweighted my thoughts, for temptation will spring 
In attractive apparel, and with effort to bring, 
V/ith all sorts of allurements, one back to the ways 
Which abandoned have been ; so the arch demon preys 
At the vitals forever of those who belong 
By desire or by chance to the criminal throng — 
And more men go astray from some chance they find in 
Their pathway, than enter deliberately on sin, 
Tis not a real demon, but a kink of the brain 
Which torturously strains at good grace to attain 
187 



To the primal at length; so, consider this just, 

Never one yet reformed who was worthy of trust. 

They may be, as I was, for long years in the right, 

Or at least so appear to the multitude's sight; 

But at last they are touched at a spot rendered weak, 

As I was, and return to the odorous leek. 

Nor is this here nor there. I must haste to reveal 

To you secrets I thought were enclosed by the seal 

Of oblivion's stamp, the last kindness I owe 

To a woman whose love's been all daughter could show 

To a parent, and yet who's not parent to you. 

Your mother I knew not, but I heard it as true 

That she died at your birth, a good woman, I trow. 

To bring forth such a child. But your father I know 

Was a man out of few, but was reputed stern 

And 'twas said that he would from the right never 

turn; 
His possessions were fair, got by good, honest thrift. 
He had weight in the town, therefore when he would 

sift 
Certain wrong we did him — put his name to a note — 
Our career was cut short, and the magistrate wrote 
Out our prison passports. 

"I had sworn to reform, 
But I first was to have vengeance on De I'Orme — 
That — Robert De I'Orme — was your own father's name; 
To accomplish it stole from his yard on the same 
Day I returned to town his one sweet baby girl 
i88 



On a sudden impulse, in the angry whirl 

Of ideas unexplained. But possession of you 

Was an unbounded trouble, and what I should do 

A confounding question. The first act was to flee 

Through wood-roads and mountains, and from pursuit 

get free. 
I might kill you, and who would be wiser or know 
What the ending had been? But your sweetness, the 

flow 
Of the silken-like locks of your soft, chestnut hair 
From a brow which then showed, as it now shows, so 

fair, 
Saved your life; and the next mooted question, to give 
You away, or place you in asylum to live. 
Aliles, and hundreds of miles, on and onward we sped. 
And my spirits arose on the thoughts which were fed 
By your God-moulded face and your stoical peace. 
And I pledged to you life and a part of the fleece 
Of the ram Chrysomallus which I would go seek 
With all the persistence of the Argonaut Greek. 
For the theft, I confess that I had no remorse; 
You a talisman grew as I laid my rough course 
To the eastward, and saw with each setting of sun 
The miles which we covered, a fair distance done. 
It was you who inspired, why, I know not, the hope 
Of a promising future, wide, boundless in scope; 
On the moment, I cast off the name I had borne. 
Assumed that which I wear, which in turn has been 

torn 

189 



Into tatters, and you were my daughter. Thenceforth/ 
'Twas for you I resolved to make life something worth. 
Oh, our traveling was long, o'er the v/earisome miles, 
And a pinching of funds — for your angel-like smiles, 
'Til at last this great city rose high on the view, 
Where the past could be buried and life commenced 

new ; 
And I luckily found a poor woman, Ann Wrenn, 
Who died, you'll remember, when you were about ten, 
Who was kindly toward you. Very humble our life 
For some years, while I fought with all strength in the 

strife. 
But good fortune the way always readily paved. 
As I valiantly marched ; aye, I more and more saved ; 
When the battle was fought, and I stood in the bar 
It seemed that the zenith I had reached from nadir. 
Looking back twenty years — I was young then, and 

strong, 
With all faculties bright which to manhood belong — 
I had pride in my work and its wonderful grov/th, 
But above all in you to whom I all oweth. 
With intensified care, T observed where you stepp'd, 
And was ever alert to all harm intercept ; 
You, indeed, were a treasure ; I saw you advance 
In both knowledge and beauty with pride, felt the 

glance 
Of your womanly eyes, 'til it cleft off the love 
Of the father — almost — placed another above 
And superior thereto; but I crushed down the same 
190 



So surely it did not rise again to my shame. 

And my care — how you paid it, a thousand times o'er 

In the sunshine you scatter'd thro years just a score 1 

I beheved, and yet think I was all unto you 

In my way. We were happy — I gloat in the view — 

As daughter and father could be. Few were the homes 

That were freer than ours from the decrepit gnomes 

Of differences, folly, and strife; and a few — 

Very few, that are bless'd by the sunlight and dew 

Of trust perfect and joy, and of grace, as was ours. 

It was, and is over. The sunniest sky lowers 

At a time least expected. The fates made me meet, 

To my horror, years several ago, on the street, 

My companion in jail. I desired to ignore 

The persistent fellow, but he pressed me the more, 

Like a hound on my track, with the threat to expose 

All the past ; and at last for his riddance I chose 

A weak course, gave him funds — paid the rascal 

blackmail. 
And this opened the way to a dreary entail 
Which brought with it destruction, for he slowly drew 
Me into acquaintance with this villainous crew, 
And now jibes at my folly. He told me last night, 
With a leer that disgusted, that back in Raquitte, 
In the very same month that you, Alice, were lost, 
De rOrme chanced to meet a misfortune which cost — 
Cost him everything — life; briefly put, he was slain, 
I suspect by this man. 



191 



"I can never again 
On this earth see your face. Ere these lines meet your 

eye, 
Arthur Sevrance to all will have uttered good-bye, 
And the coroner been called. For the poison I've kept 
On me always, for fear that detectives who slept 
To appearance awhile, would awake, and aware 
I'd be surely condemned, but sworn never to share 
Second time prison life. I've related these things 
In a short, hurried way, which a memory hot brings, 
That m.ay in the future be of value to you. 
And because simple justice demands them your due; 
To exhibit, no less, that your blood is not soiled 
By a trace of the crime which has so utterly spoiled 
This accurs'd life of mine. So farewell and farewell. 
Show this letter to none ; burn it up and don't tell 
What it says. I beg you, if you ean, to forgive; 
And I hope happy years will be those which you live. 
I subscribe, as you've known me, as bitter tears dance 
In my eyes, truly yours — farewell, 

Arthur Sevrance." 

XCVII 

Winthrop read the last line, and refolded the sheets. 
Amid silence so deep he could hear his heart-beats 
And his fingers ran slowly o'er the paper's long crease ; 
And his thoughts went astray, as flotsam of the seas. 
'Til he chanced to look up, saw the pallor which lay 
192 



On Miss Sevrance's cheek, like a mask of death clay, 
And a tremor which ran on her lips plainly said 
That life stood as forfeit, and 'twere rest to be dead. 
Seagrave sprang to her chair, on the floor by her side, 
With his arm 'round her form, let one hand o'er hers 

glide, 
And his eyes looking up, with a warm, loving glow : 
"O my Alice! Alice! 'Twas not so! O not so! 
Not a thing — not a shadow of doubt touched my mind. 
This, if anything, should you and I closer bind. 
'Twas yourself that I loved, and yourself is here still, 
With the goodness and sweetness which all ideals fill. 
You have suffered— are suffering. I wish I might share 
What I may of such trials. Events lately laid bare 
We'll forget, if we can, and the actors forgive 
As we humanly may. For the future we'll live 
In the holiest love which the earth will allow 
With its grossness. Permit me to reseal the vow." 



On a wave girt isle in this southern zone, 
A man and a woman stood together 

This winter, and looked on what has been known 
In current gossip, light as a feather 
Blown hither and yon in changeful weather, 

As a castle builded by a hermit old— 

A weary wanderer, adventurous, bold. 
193 



The house had fallen, and the logs were rot, 

And mosses and ferns were o'er all growing, 

And where the garden and where it was not 
Was all the same to the viewers, owing 
To the rankest weeds and trees o'erflowing 

In a favored clime, with never a dearth 

Of tropical growth to cover the earth. 

They silently stood, and the woman turned 
To the splendid man and sweetly smiling. 

And he clasped her there and a warm kiss burned 
On lips a stoic would deem beguiling, 
And with hands entwined the dear hour whiling, 

They went to their boat and swiftly away 

From Isle of the Blest of their early day. 



194 



